Touch
by always-a-time
Summary: They were never destined to touch, yet when it all ended (for it always ended, no matter how hard they tried,) they were too late. A series of reincarnation one-shots featuring Éponine & Enjolras. *COMPLETE* Ships mainly E/É with a side of C/M.
1. The June Rebellion - 1832

Touch  
by always-a-time  
[_Enjolras X Éponine_]

* * *

The June Rebellion - 1832

* * *

_They were never destined to touch, yet when it all ended (for it always ended, no matter how hard they tried) they were too late._

_-.-.-_

She was the boy in the scruffy cap, with the over-sized coat and dirty cheeks, in love with Marius Pontmercy. Her name was Éponine, her life was cold and dark, but she was unafraid of what tomorrow would bring. He was the student, with his arms full of books and revolutionary plans, ready to become a lawyer. His name was Enjolras, his head filled with dreams of revolution and freedom for France.

They'd barely ever acknowledged each other, only the briefest glances of recognition ever passed between them. They'd barely understood each other, not until it was too late.

He had never understood what she saw in Pontmercy. Marius was a foolish, love-sick boy with no sight of France's bigger picture, no idea of the true meaning of freedom. How could Marius claim to see freedom when he couldn't even see the adoration in the eyes of Éponine Thérnardier?

He could see it, it was clear as glass to him, in the way she followed him around, gladly agreeing to deliver his letters to some girl he'd only just met the day before. He saw the heartache in Éponine's eyes and it struck him more than any tragic romance novel ever had. Life wasn't always found in books, it was also found in her eyes.

She had never understood how he could sacrifice everything. His money, his education, and his future; all for the freedom of France. How could they win the favour of Paris when the only goal of the poor was to live another day?

She could see it, it was apparent to anyone, Enjolras was a brave, courageous, inspiring man, rallying men to his fighting cause, including Marius. She saw the passion in Enjolras' eyes and it was enough for her to let them all continue to believe Paris would indeed join their side when the barricades arose. Still, she would join those schoolboys, if only for Marius' sake.

_One day more ..._

-.-.-

_A heart full of love ..._

Marius had sent her with a letter for his love, never seeing the wretched look upon her blemished face. The letter for Cosette was clutched between her dirty, white-knuckled fingers, but she said nothing about it. Nothing about how she knew Cosette as a dirty, ratty girl who ran in and out of the blurry memories from her childhood. Éponine promised to take the letter with haste and Marius wrapped his arms around her in a friendly embrace.

Only Enjolras saw her eyes shut in contentment and a smile that stole over her tired features.

Delivering the letter was a thankless job for her, but she did it anyways. She did it out of her love for him. Marius had no idea how she felt about him, and it was better that way. Let him love the beautiful, perfect Cosette, who had only ever been the dirt under Éponine's feet until some man had come to take her away. How badly had she wished that he could have taken her away too? This was the price she had paid for her sins, she supposed. Her childhood spent watching Cosette be tormented by her parents, and now Cosette was to be rewarded with Marius' love.

Éponine took the letter to Cosette's father with a stiff upper lip - vowing not to cry when she saw him - the man who could have given her freedom, once upon another time. When she left, however, she was close to tears. How had she come to grief in such a way as this? That she would allow Marius to love this other girl, a girl Éponine had spent her childhood watching grow up in poverty. She had once questioned Enjolras' willingness to give up everything for France, and here she was, giving up everything she had for Marius. Still, she knew her last chance at happiness had slipped through her fingers the moment she had led Marius to Cosette.

Éponine ran back towards the barricades, desperate as she wound through the streets she knew so well. There was nothing left to lose if she told him. Nothing left at all.

_He was never hers to lose ..._

___-.-.-_

_She was the first to fall ..._

That night on the barricade was Éponine's last, and it tore at Enjolras to see her die in Pontmercy's arms. Watching her climb the barricade, he swore loudly at her determination to reach the top, to return to the boy who would never care for her more than a dear friend. She had not deserved such a fate, to die in the arms of the boy who would never care for her the way she wanted. He saw Marius murmur words of comfort to the wounded woman, attempting to make her last moment happy ones. Had Pontmercy finally realized what he, Enjolras, had known all along? That Éponine Thérnardier was in love with him and had always been in love with him?

If only he could seal her wounds of heartache and pain. If only the happy endings that existed in his books could exist for Éponine, too. He prayed for her then - that her last moments would indeed by happy ones - and that she would finally find peace. Enjolras wanted to go to her, to pull her thin form into his own embrace and let her know that someone had cared for her, even if it wasn't Marius Pontmercy._  
_

At the end of that day, her body stilled, and before he could go forward to help Marius had already lifted the girl up. The pavement where she had lain shone with her blood. Deep inside the guilt settled in, that his barricade had brought about her death, would bring about any number of deaths. And yet, this battle was to be fought for her, and all others like her. This battle was to be fought for every soul in France. These men beside him had chosen to be here, to fight for Patria.

Éponine's body was seemingly weightless as Pontmercy strode quietly across to the tavern, gently placing her body against the wall, closing her eyes and placing her hands in her lap. Her wet brown hair hung limply around her face, and Enjolras watched as Marius brushed a few stray locks and tucked them behind her ears. Never again would those wide brown eyes gaze upon the world that had treated her so cruelly. Perhaps it was better this way, he told himself, as he watched Marius hover for a moment before rejoining his comrades.

Enjolras wasn't aware he had walked over to her until he was close enough to touch her.

_Just a little fall of rain_, he thought, his eyes brushing over her peaceful, half-smiling face, _she could just be sleeping_.

With that thought, he was able to turn around and walk in the other direction. He would fight for her, for her and for Patria.

* * *

AN: I may or may not continue this as a series of one-shots. It may involve reincarnation and different time periods, I haven't quite decided yet.


	2. Aftermath: Enjolras' Funeral

Touch: Aftermath  
by always-a-time  
[_Marius X Cosette_]

* * *

Enjolras' Funeral - 1832

* * *

"_I think I was a little bit in love with her_."

There had been no burial for Éponine. Marius had not been able to claim the body while he had been recovering, and he was sure her parents wouldn't have bothered. Most of the unclaimed corpses had been burned. He and Cosette were in a fiacre, on their way back from Enjolras' funeral. The only sounds were those of busy streets and Paris' poorest inhabitants. Eventually, though, the sounds faded to the lone sound of horsehoes on pavement. All Marius could think about now, however, was the poor gamine girl who had been in love with him.

Cosette was clutching his arm tightly because she was afraid that if she let go, he would disappear. Marius was her whole life now that papa was gone. Of course, Cosette remembered Éponine all too well now. The little round-faced girl who had been the object of her envy. Éponine had had her parents' love - her sister and brothers' love - while all Cosette had had was the memory of a woman in white who sang her lullabies in her dreams.

"Not that I don't love you, Cosette," Marius was quick to reassure her now, a nervous smile hovering on his lips. Cosette bobbed her head up and down, returning his smile without thinking too much of it, as she was still deep in thought. Éponine had been a dear friend, in the end, hadn't she? Éponine had given her Marius. Éponine had given her life for Marius and delivered him to Cosette. If Cosette had been asked a month ago, she would have been hard-pressed to feel sympathy for the girl who had only served to further her misery when they were children. Now Cosette had still forgiven Éponine easily, even before their two paths had met again. Even before she had seen that Éponine was the lonely, starving one in the end.

"You're the only one for me, Cosette." Marius was still rambling on about her, and it made Cosette laugh inwardly a bit. In some ways, Marius was still a little boy, just as she was sometimes a little girl lost in a wood. It was definitely one of his more endearing traits. "It's just - just - I think Éponine deserved better than what her life gave her."

"Did you tell her?" Cosette found herself asking. "That you love her?"

"I did." Marius looked uncomfortable for a moment, maybe crestfallen. Concerned, Cosette gently placed her hand over his. "Before she died. I - I didn't mean it then, though. I wish I could have."

They fell quiet, then, as the horses came to a whinying halt for another carriage to pass by.

"I think Enjolras loved Éponine, too. A little bit." Marius remembered the expression on the young revolutionary's face as he had gazed upon Éponine lifeless form. Marius had only ever seen that look when Enjolras had talked of Republic, of revolution, of Patria. The resolve and determination in Enjolras' stiff jaw and firm gaze shone clearly in his mind's eye, even though it was only what seemed a distant memory. The two of them together, Enjolras and Éponine, his golden locks contrasting obscenely with her dark ones, even in the dim light as the sunset on the faithful night.

It was the most prominent memory Marius had of Éponine's death. Never again would Marius know a friend who had given up more than Éponine had for him. Someday, when the time was right, he would tell the tale of Éponine Thérnardier.

It was the best memory he had of his long-gone friend. Never again would Marius know a man who had given up more than Enjolras had for Patria. Someday, when the barricades rose again, perhaps they would recall and remember Enjolras' name.

"They might have been happy together," he finished.

Cosette's voice was a soft, yet it still pierced the _clip-clop_ of the horses on pavement drew to a close. "Perhaps they are, Marius. Together in the garden of the Lord." Her hand squeezed his as the fiacre slowed. Marius let out a quiet breath.

"I hope so, Cosette, I hope they are."

* * *

AN: I know this is probably not what you all were expecting as an update - however, the plot bunnies have been running extremely rampant over the past few days. To top it all off I had a terrible cold, so there wasn't much time for writing. There is a silver lining, however. I have most of the next three chapters already written and planned out. I had a bit of a crazy week trying to add in new parts as I thought of them. There will be a bit more wait as I edit and revise them - after that you'll be guaranteed updates! Now isn't that nice. I hope this little post can tide you over until then.


	3. La Belle Époque - 1871

Timeless  
by always-a-time  
[_Enjolras X Éponine_]

Extensive (really really extensive) 'Author Notes' can be found at the end of this chapter.  
A few quick things - a tad bit of foul language as well as a weeny bit of Marius-bashing. Not bad language you haven't heard if you've seen the musical/movie, but just making sure that you are aware. This one is also more heartbreaking than the first chapter. Grab your tissues.

_Cette histoire est pour vous, mes amis.  
This story is for you, my friends._

* * *

La Belle Époque - 1871

* * *

_It seemed timeless - as if they'd been expecting the heartbreak from the very beginning._

-.-.-

He was ever the gentleman - a patron of the arts, and a good, honest companion. His name was Étienne, and to him, loyalty to his friends was placed above all else. She was the perfect housewife - adoring, loving, and a good match for her Mathieu. Her name was Émilie, and to her, loyalty to her husband was placed above all else.

They knew each other well, and once in a while they'd have a conversation or two about the arts. The arts were a timeless thing, something they could both converse easily about.

She thought him attractive, but she was married, devoted to the point of worship. She'd been in love with Mathieu since she'd first laid eyes on him, and nothing would change that, not even Étienne. What was attraction compared to love, after all?

She didn't stop talking with him, though. That was the little freedom she allowed for herself. Sometimes she would even play the piano for him, something she hadn't done for Mathieu in a long while.

He thought her beautiful, but she was Mathieu's, and even so, she was completely enamoured of her husband. He'd admired her intelligence and free-spirit, yet wondered how she could allow herself to fill the dull role of housewife. Love was not meant to be a ball and chain.

He didn't stop talking with her, though. If only because he wanted her to be able to exercise her mind in thoughtful conversation. She was wonderfully intriguing, a definite change from all the bourgeoisie girls he was used to hearing Gaetan talk about.

-.-.-

_How pensive, how sad you seem to be ..._

She never took off her gloves. That was one thing he had noticed. The pretty, white silk gloves that had undoubtedly been bestowed upon her by her husband commonly covered her hands. Even when she played the piano for him, the gloves did not come off. It was that one day where she did that he remembered with a startling clarity.

Émilie sat before the finely polished keys, smiling gently at him. "What would you like to hear me play today, _monsieur_?" She rarely asked him for requests. Then again, she rarely played for him at all, so perhaps it was not so rare as it was at odds with her personality. The Émilie he knew was a vibrant, noisy creature who bustled about with protesting handmaidens trailing after her. Today she seemed quiet, almost contemplative.

"Anything is amiable to me," was the answer he gave her.

Her hands hovered for a few moments, and he waited for the music to begin, but it didn't. Étienne watched, instead, as she carefully peeled off her lacy gloves, exposing lily-white hands as well as a peculiar, round angry-red mark. "Your hand, Madame Pontier, is it alright?" he questioned, concerned. Was this the reason why she always wore gloves?

"It's _Émilie_, I keep telling you," she replied easily, ignoring his query in a way only she could. "And I'm fine," she added, as he opened his mouth to protest. Émilie's practiced fingers paused over the ivory keys only a moment more before she began Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Somewhere between the soft notes he forgot about her hand, and instead found himself sitting next to her on the piano bench, just watching her. He watched, and she played.

The music drew out a kind sadness in him as it drew to a close. Émilie hadn't played the whole song, of course, but he was sure if she had then he would have fallen in lo- again, he reminded himself that she was married and that they were only friends. Entertaining any other option was unthinkable. It was a foolish notion, at any rate, Émilie was hopelessly besotted with her currently absent husband. Perhaps he was just feeling lonesome. His friends all had ladies or mistresses of their own, and here he was, wandering aimlessly through life. It wasn't as if he hadn't tried - yet none of the bourgeoisie girls he knew appealed to him.

"Do you think Mathieu will be along shortly?"

Étienne smiled at her, "I'm sure he will be," he lied.

-.-.-

_So dark - so dark and deep ..._

They had planned on going out for the evening. A small dinner with friends. Étienne followed Mathieu up the stairs to his bedroom, since the latter had insisted he pay the former back for the previous outing. Regardless of the price of the meal, Mathieu always insisted on paying when he picked the place they would go. Étienne had constantly protested the unfairness of this - surely Mathieu knew that he wasn't able to afford fancy dining - it made no sense for Mathieu to pay the full amount whenever they went somewhere expensive. Still, his friend insisted, as did Émilie, so every few weeks he would be treated to the kind of food only Mathieu's family could provide.

It was only by chance that he spotted the letter on the desk that night as Mathieu retrieved his money from the bedroom next door. The parchment smelled of perfume, something Étienne knew Émilie didn't often wear. When she did, it was nowhere near this strong. Suspicious, he glanced over his shoulder at the open door, hesitating. Was it really his place to be snooping around his friend's things? And yet ... and yet ... there was the sound of footsteps as Mathieu approached.

"What is this, Mathieu? Is this what I think it is?" Étienne scooped up the paper and brandished it violently in front of the younger man's face._ Let him think of that what he will,_ Étienne thought calmly. _If he's done no wrong he'll have nothing to hide. _Regardless, Étienne hoped it wasn't what he thought it was. "Another woman's note? Explain this."

Mathieu paled considerably, and the sinking feeling in Étienne's stomach doubled.

"Please, Étienne, lower your voice," Mathieu murmured, closing the door behind him. "Émilie's downstairs in the parlour. I haven't done anything wrong, I swear. It's just what it is, a letter from a friend. We're friends."

"_Friends_," Étienne sneered. "I'm sure every woman you befriend sprays her letters with perfume. You not only play the part of a fool, you are one. So is this where you've been all those times you've left Émilie alone in the house, unaware? To visit your whore? Émilie's never done anything to deserve this from you. She waits for you, you know, those afternoons you spend with that tramp. What in god's name would possess you to do such a thing!"

"You're one to speak of impropriety, Étienne. What of all those afternoons you spend holed up here with my wife?" Mathieu's expression took on a fraction of the anger that Étienne felt. "And she's not like that! She's a proper lady - don't you dare insult her like that! She has no idea -" he was abruptly cut off by Étienne's new tirade.

"You mean those afternoons I spend trying to tell her you'll come home soon? That you haven't been taking off afternoons without telling her? I've made your excuses long enough, Mathieu. Friendship only goes so far. Émilie is my friend as well, and until this point I was able to turn a blind eye - god knows how - and I will do so no longer. If you do not tell her, I will."

Mathieu's jaw stiffened, but the young man remained silent. Étienne ran a hand through his hair, frustrated and upset.

"I don't understand why. Don't you love her, don't you love Émilie?"

"Our marriage was arranged, Étienne. I married her on my parent's behalf. Her family wanted money and mine wanted titles and connections. I thought I could make her happy and that I would be content. Émilie doesn't know. That's why I courted her so carefully, I wanted her to believe that I loved her. I think I even wanted myself to believe it. A few months ago I met Corinne. She's beautiful, Étienne, loving and caring and - and it's her I love. What can I do? What will you do?" Mathieu had the decency to look ashamed now.

"I might just tell her if you don't. Honest to god, you've been more than just foolish, Mathieu! You've ruined yourself - you've ruined your wife. Stop seeing your mistress, it's not worth it."

Mathieu hung his head down, "Corinne deserves more too, I know. But I've no answer to your questions, my friend."

"Don't call me that, Don't call me your friend. For shame, you've brought disgrace upon yourself and the one woman who has done nothing but been a faithful wife to you," he snapped coldly before exiting the room - frustrated and disappointed at his cowardly former friend.

___The secrets that you keep_ ...  


_-.-.-  
_

_You leave me to take the road to glory ..._

Émilie had the letter she had taken from Étienne in her hand as she left. She had to see - to find out for herself what this mystery woman looked like. She hadn't been able to believe it at first, not when Étienne had told her, not when Mathieu had confirmed it. She had screamed - she had cried - she had lost control. For a while, Émilie had been afraid that she had lost her mind. Looking back now, she felt a twinge of amusement at the two men who had obviously floundered for some way to calm her, yet had come up lacking.

Her heart ached with each step she took - she had refused to pay for a fiacre with Mathieu's money - yet she did not falter or slow in her step. The house was only a few more numbers down.

Then the girl appeared. All long, blond hair and soft curves. Smiling face and a basket full of flowers. If Émilie hadn't been so upset and jealous she would have probably puked. Mathieu was in love with this? This two-a-penny bourgeoisie girl? The sick churning in her gut doubled. Émilie turned to leave.

Deep, deep, down, she had wished that Corinne had turned out to be some tramp instead of just some normal bourgeoisie. It would have been much easier to hate her. Instead, all Émilie felt was a sick kind of envy. This pretty face had captured Mathieu's heart in a way she had not been able to. The wedding ring on her finger suddenly felt heavy and cold. Émilie wrenched her glove off, tugging the ring off along with it. It slipped, and tumbled onto the pavement and into a puddle. Cursing, Émilie stooped to pick it up. The shiny metal was now grimy and dirt-covered. Scowling, she wiped it clean on her white glove, the glove from the pair she had taken to wearing everywhere she went. The pair Mathieu had given to her the autumn of their wedding.

She stood there, in the middle of the street, clutching the two material things that she would have given the world for only yesterday. Now they seemed almost worthless. With a fierce cry, Émilie threw the lace gloves into the puddle and stormed off. It didn't matter where she went as long as it wasn't here.

_But my heart will follow you all the way ..._

-.-.-

_So many things unclear ..._

From a few houses down, Corinne looked up to see a woman in a plum gown running away from a lone pair of cream white gloves on the pavement. For a moment she was tempted to fetch them - surely the woman would return for gloves as lovely as these - but she hesitated as she saw a man step out from between two of the neighbouring houses to scoop them up. His golden hair glinted brightly in the sunlight as he examined them, gently brushing the muck off with careful fingers before tucking them into his pockets. Corinne turned away and resumed her walk home from the gardens.

_So many things unknown ..._

-.-.-

_There are times when I catch in the silence ...  
_

He hadn't been by their home in months. Étienne fumbled idly with the gloves in his pocket. Now he stood before the door, thinking. He didn't know why he had come - had he wanted to return the gloves to Émilie? What had he expected? For her to throw her arms around him and hold him and tell him that she -

She loved Mathieu.

It was simple as that.

She hated him.

That was simple, too.

Étienne almost couldn't blame her, because everything she had known was gone now. What had seemed right was wrong, and what had seemed wrong was right. Étienne had seen her hurt, her pain. He had felt her blows as she refused to believe what he told her. He could have stopped her, but he hadn't. Somehow he felt as if it was all his fault, anyways. So he had let her hit him, scratching and clawing and shrieking and crying until Mathieu shouted at her to stop - that it was true - and she had collapsed into a sobbing heap on the floor. Étienne had wanted to cry too, to say he was sorry that he had let this happen - even though _that_ wasn't true at all - but the words were dry in his mouth as Mathieu had calmly told him that he had thought it was best if Étienne left them both to sort things out.

Étienne had wanted to tell her that he knew how she felt - knew how it felt to not be loved by the one you loved so desperately - but she wouldn't care. He was only a friend to her, a friend who'd brought her the worst news of her life, at that. He had to be the last person she wanted to see right now.

The door swung open. Mathieu's grave face sent terror coursing through Étienne's veins. The older man looked paler than Étienne had ever seen.

"She wants to see you."

-.-.-

_The sigh of a faraway song ..._

She was with child. She was sickly. Étienne forced himself to sit down, even though he felt as if he shouldn't have been there at all, not while she was like this. If women had not been his area of expertise, surely with pregnant women he would do no better.

"Please, _monsieur_. I'm glad you came," her voice was hoarse and weak. The servant girl at her side dabbed at Émilie's forehead with a damp cloth, but Émilie brushed the hand aside with a strength Étienne hadn't thought possible from someone looking the way she did. Bedridden. Pregnant. Ill. All words that he would have never used to describe her, not in a million lifetimes. The urge to flee came fast and hard, but Étienne remained rooted in his seat.

Because she was glad he had come.

-.-.-

_In my life, there is someone who touches my life ..._

Émilie had died after giving birth early autumn.

Étienne had stood before her grave, next to her widowed husband and motherless babe. Her last wish had been for Mathieu to wait a respectable period of time after her passing - she had continued over Mathieu's loud protests that she would indeed live - and then court that blond bourgeoisie girl he was in love with. Étienne hadn't been able to believe it at first, not when Mathieu had told him, not when Émilie had confirmed it. He'd wanted to scream - to cry - to lose his mind.

Émilie had forgiven him, in the end. That afternoon when he had paid their home a call at Mathieu's behest. She had smiled at him, a smile that tore at the very fibers of his being. Étienne remembered trying to return her gloves, even as worn as they were now. Étienne had washed them again and again with his own hands until they were both free of any traces of dirt, until they were both creamy white once more. He remembered the laughing look in her eyes as she had refused them, saying that since they had somehow found their way to him he deserved them. They sat in his heavily pocket now as he made his way through Paris.

His heart ached with each step he took - he had refused to pay for a fiacre home with Mathieu's money - yet he did not falter or slow in his step. His house was only a few more numbers down.

He saw the flash of long brown hair and laughing dark eyes just before he reached his doorstep.

_Waiting here, waiting near ..._

* * *

AN: So this Author's Note is split into two parts; the personal part - which is more my thoughts and feelings on this chapter; and the historical part - which is exactly what it sounds like but also includes the logistics of my writing. So - personal bit first, feel free to skip the next paragraph or so if you don't care for that sort of thing. Or skip it all, for all I care, it's just an Author's Note - the author can't be too important, can she?

Okay, so I'll admit. Writing the last half of this chapter made me cry and cry and cry. I swear my heart broke into fifteen million pieces. Out of all the things I've written for , I do believe I love this one the most. I just loved writing it (love love love love), and I hope that you all enjoyed reading it. I think it's a really beautiful piece that could almost stand alone - even out of the LesMis fanfiction category.

I know Éponine is often the one written with heartbreak, but still, writing it from Enjolras' POV nearly killed me. ;w; I absolutely hated having to kill Éponine off again, but it had to be done. I swear there is a happy ending for them both, though! I wouldn't be able to _not_ write one after all of this. I love them too much as a couple to let the ship sink!

If you've haven't guessed already, I tend to write things kind of structured - surely you'll notice that the beginning is much that same as the first chapter. I just like doing that, so ... that's how it's going to be! o3o

I'd also like to thank everyone who reviewed last time. You really gave me the energy and courage to write this. I've never had such a wonderful response before!

-.-.-

Now onto the more ... informative part. I'll start with my decisions regarding their reincarnations and actions. I wanted Éponine to marry Marius. Yes, I put the two of them together, happy - but no, they were not in love. As stated, it was a marriage of convenience. The love was completely one-sided on Éponine's part. I wanted them all to remain true to their original feelings for each other.

You may find Enjolras' sudden feelings for Éponine slightly OOC, but I disagree. In this reincarnation there was no big battle - no fighting cause for him. (There very well could have been, but I wanted to focus more on their relationship for this one.) This enables him to focus more on Éponine, which is probably what you wanted if you're reading this story! Passion - true passion - is something that strikes maybe only once in a lifetime. He's smitten with her, yes, partly because this time they are closer friends, closer companions. He values his friendship with Marius over that, though when he realizes that Marius has been unfaithful, he begins to question himself.

Regarding Marius, I'm sure some people may/may not be upset that he was seeing Cosette even though he was married to Éponine. Let me make it clear that he never did anything with Cosette (i.e. no kissy-kissy) but he did hide the fact that he was married from her. He feels really bad about it, he hadn't meant to lead Cosette on ... but you know how it starts with a little lie - and then the whole thing blows up in your face. Does that make you all like him a bit again? He's going to be in the next chapter, after all (another interlude, anyone?). I did mention this whole idea of 'structure', remember?

On a lighter note, did anyone note the birthmark on her hand being the one she received from the gunshot that killed her previously? I'm sure you all did.

Historically, this chapter takes place during '_La Belle Époque_'. In English this translates to 'the beautiful era'. This era starts shortly after the Third French Republic began, and ends with the coming of World War I. It also started after the French-German war. I realize my fic makes no mention of that fact, which is undoubtedly something Enjolras would have gone for. However, they are young adults here (especially Éponine and Enjolras, who are both younger than Marius is here by a few years) and would not have been old enough to fight the war when it happened, therefore Enjolras could not participate - although I'm sure he has lots to say on the subject. Anyways - back to the subject at hand. Because of this period peace and prosperity that the arts were able to flourish. I chose _La Belle Époque_ mainly because it's a very romantic period, and I wanted that to be the setting for the plot I had in mind.

If anyone has any questions at all about anything, I would absolutely love to answer them (or in the case of the history, tell you to use Google and research it yourself)!

Please, please, please - read and review! I love this piece so much, and I would be so happy with feedback on it. I realize this Author Note is really long and that I rambled, but if you still stuck with me I love you for it.


	4. Aftermath: Émilie's Grave

Timeless: Aftermath  
by always-a-time  
[_Marius X Cosette_]

In which Corinne/Cosette reflects on Émilie and the people who loved her, and Émilie's daughter reflects on the man who loved her mother.

* * *

Émilie's Grave - 1898

* * *

Corinne had never asked about the lace gloves.

Mathieu had never talked about them, either.

Patria doesn't know about them at all, and for that they both are glad.

Corinne could still remember seeing Étienne (although she hadn't known him at the time) holding Émilie's white gloves in large hands, standing in the middle of the street. He had reminded her of a man lost in the woods, yet now when she thought back on it he looked like a man who had found the North Star. Corinne had never told anyone of that fateful afternoon - she had kept that little moment to herself. It made her feel better about what had been _Mathieu-and-Émilie. _The idea that perhaps _Étienne-and-Émilie_ had existed soothed the hurt. Corinne had never wanted to be anyone's mistress. And yet.

Young Patria holds her father's arm as they stand before her mother's grave. Émilie's grave. Sometimes, when Corinne looked at Patria, all she could see was the lovely woman in the deep purple gown. And it hurt, too, to see Patria looking so much like her mother. If it hurt Mathieu too, he never mentioned it, for which she was glad. Émilie had been beautiful, Corinne knew. Wide, deep-set smoky brown eyes and thick, wavy brown hair. She had seen the pictures, even as Mathieu tried to avoid letting her see, probably in order to spare her the guilt and the pain. Patria, however, relished greedily with each framed photo of her 'real mother'. There was some sort of tiny shrine in her room, Corinne was sure, so she made an effort to never glimpse inside whenever she walked by. Most of the time, that worked. Sometimes, though, it didn't.

Still, Corinne was happy with what she had been given. A loving husband and two lovely daughters, even if one of them wasn't hers - and never would be.

"Even though I didn't know her, I still miss her, papa," Patria was saying, tears evident in her normally laughing eyes.

"I miss her, too."

Corinne tried to pretend she hadn't heard Mathieu say that. She also tried to pretend that she didn't feel Patria's eyes - so like Émilie's - burning holes into the side of her head. She pretended she didn't feel Mathieu's gaze flicker guiltily in her direction. Corinne sighs.

"She must have been a wonderful woman," Corinne finally says when she is able to speak without a quaver in her voice. "I wish I could have met her."

"Papa," Patria speaks up, and to Corinne it seems as if the young girl is trying to pretend as though she hasn't heard Corinne speaking. "Where is Monsieur Étienne?"

The two of them - Étienne and Patria - are on close terms with one another. Society whispers quiet, questionable remarks about the relationship between the older bachelor and the motherless Piermont child, yet those two seem completely unaffected by it. It is a bond that no one can touch, not even the harsher words of Paris' finest. Corinne wishes that Patria could feel a little bit like the outcast that she makes Corinne feel like, but the girl is as if she is made of marble.

"I haven't the faintest idea, _ma petite_."

Patria pouts, a little push of her full bottom lip. Corinne resumes her respectful gaze towards Émilie's gravestone. Patria is beautiful, but it is a great and terrible beauty to Corinne, who will never feel comfortable as long as those watchful eyes are near. Although she never sees Émilie's ghost, Corinne is sure that she is a haunted woman all the same._  
_

"Étienne is here," Mathieu says suddenly.

Patria's head jerks upwards in delight as the tall man approaches.

Corinne mutters an excuse of some sort - surely her own little one is causing havoc among the servants - she convinces Mathieu to return home with her. Mathieu nods and turns to Patria to tell her that he will ask Étienne to see her home afterwards, should she choose to stay.

The rapturous smile on the girl's face widens, if at all possible.

Mathieu tells Corinne to wait in the fiacre while he talks with Étienne.

Corinne leaves without looking back.

-.-.-

_You're here, that's all I need to know ..._

Her breath catches when she sees him.

_'Doesn't it always?' _she asks herself sheepishly.

Patria's dark eyes absorb the sight of him - her best friend, her confidant - and her link to the one woman she wishes she could have met. Patria loves her mother more than the whole world combined. Sometimes Patria thinks he's the only person besides herself who misses her mother at all. He is the only one who understands. Monsieur Étienne is the only one who comprehends the loss the way she does. He is the one who taught her to play the piano. Sometimes Patria wishes Monsieur Étienne was her papa instead.

When she first played Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata for him he cried, and although Patria doesn't know exactly why, she can guess it's because of her mother. When she first finished the piece he was silent, and although Patria doesn't hear the words '_I love her_', she knows he does. He loved her mother, and still does, for love is something that never dies.

And he is by her side now. Assuring her father that she will be home on time for dinner. Her papa is going on and on, and Patria resists the urge to whine. Monsieur Étienne is a gentleman - there is no need to patronize a family friend, she wants to say - yet she understands the resentment her father holds for M. Étienne. She understands that there will always be some level of resentment. Monsieur Étienne told her the story of her mother long ago, and it was a sad tale that made Patria want to lock herself in her room and scream and cry and -

"Why couldn't maman have loved you instead?" Patria finds herself asking once her father is out of sight.

Monsieur Étienne's troubled blue eyes meet hers. "Maybe she did," he offers, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "But she loved your papa more, _ma chère fille_."

The pout reappears on Patria's lips. The tiny piece of hope that is snatched away from her stings her eyes. "How could she not love you more? Papa loves Corinne, why couldn't she love you instead?"

_'Why can't you be my papa instead?'_ is the unspoken question they both hear in the air.

He shakes his head, and Patria admires the light reflecting off of his now white-blonde hair with a kind of regret. "Be nicer to your _belle_-_mère. _She's doing her best by you and your sister," he tells her instead.

"Half-sister," Patria insists stubbornly.

M. Étienne laughs, but it is a sad sound, one that troubles her young ears. "You sounds just like her; you look just like her. _Petite Patria_." He smiles wistfully at her. "Your maman would be proud of you, I think."

Her heart swells at this new little piece of information - she flings her long, skinny arms around his middle. "Really? You mean it?"

His arms are hesitant as they surround her. "Truly," he answers. When he slips his hands into her pockets, she does not notice - she is too busy basking in the glow of happiness that does not surround her nearly enough. Étienne can hear a few muffled sniffs and sighs as they settle into something close to comfortable.

The two of them stand there, then, two lonely souls missing Émilie together.

"I see her sometimes," Patria whispers quietly, as if she is sharing some great secret between the two of them that cannot be said in any normal tone. Her breathing becomes slightly erratic with the confession, and her eyes widen ever so slightly. "She's wearing a purple gown, and she's always smiling, but her eyes - her eyes -"

"-look like they're laughing." Étienne finishes, in the same quiet tone. His face is still expressionless, as if he's thinking of a time from long, long ago.

Their eyes meet, and for a moment Émilie's eyes are laughing at him from Patria's beaming face. Suddenly, he feels weary beyond his years. Suddenly, he feels the loss again - sharp and quick - like little stabbing knives in his heart and lungs. It hurts to breathe.

_Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab._

Eight times in total, each following after the other with little time to feel the pain at all.

"Let's go, I promised your father on my life that I'd bring you home before supper. While he might not murder me, he might not let me visit as much anymore, and we wouldn't want that, now would we?" The voice that speaks is calm and collected - a voice that, perhaps, inspired men and made great speeches in another lifetime - and Patria knows the conversation is over.

Patria does not protest or answer his question (she is her mother's daughter in that respect, avoiding questions and the like), she merely accepts his proffered arm and turns to leave. Even though they are walking back as the sun sets, she feels no fear with this man by her side. And neither does he.

_And you will keep me safe ..._

-.-.-

_And you will keep me close ..._

When Patria discovers the soft, white gloves in the pocket of her gown later, she says nothing, merely pulls them on for a moment in the sanctuary of her room. They fit her hands perfectly, so she turns them over and over - this way and that - admiring them. They appear to be well-worn, but in a good way. A loved way. Glancing out the window, Patria can see the rain trickling down at a steady pace. There is no woman in a purple gown standing outside, merely a dirty-faced gamine girl who smiles with her mother's smile and stares with her mother's eyes. As M. Étienne hails and enters a fiacre to leave, she watches the gamine follow him inside, hitching up her worn dress to step up. M. Étienne does not show any signs of seeing the ghost-like waif who seats herself next to him.

Patria smiles a secret smile - as if she knows a great secret that is hers and hers alone - and tucks the gloves into her jewellery box before heading down to join her parents for dinner.

_And rain will make the flowers grow ..._

* * *

AN: -sigh- That was hard to write. But I loved the idea of Émilie/Éponine naming her daughter after the one thing Les Amis had fought for. France is their home - everyone's home - and I wanted her to be a part of the story. Just to make things clear, Patria is not the reincarnation of France or anything like that, I just used the name.

On another note, these chapters just keep getting longer and longer, don't they? This chapter, which is meant to be short, ended up being longer than the first one. I feel bad. Should I rewrite the first one and add more? I felt like I shouldn't, since most of you know the story anyways. These chapters are longer, I suppose, because I'm writing new plots and things like that. Anyhoo, this is the end of this time period, I hope you all liked it. If there's anything you all want me to work in to the next plot or so, tell me now so I have time to fit it in!

Last chapter's 'Author Notes' were really long, I think after I've finished with this story I'll add another chapter on the end and move them all there.

Thanks to all the lovely followers, and bigger thanks to the all lovely reviewers!


	5. The Saar Offensive - 1939

Together  
by always-a-time  
[_Enjolras X Éponine_]

Les Amis make their appearance, and Grantaire pokes a lot of fun at a rather smitten Enjolras.  
I tried my best to make this as accurate as possible, so please take no offense if something is incorrect. This story takes place during World War II, so please be aware of that.  
Extensive 'Author Notes' can be found at the end of this chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

The Saar Offensive - 1939

* * *

_They died together - each on the others' mind - even though they were miles and miles apart._

_-.-.-_

She was simply a factory worker, one of many working women, sister to one of many men going off to fight the war. Her name was Evelyn, and she lived day-to-day hoping the war would end, even though it had yet to fully begin. He was the foreman's son, only to eager to be deployed, ready to prove himself to his country. His name was Edwin, and his father was damn well proud to have his son go off to fight.

They knew each other, but had hardly talked. What was the point? They would probably never see each other again.

She spotted him often, talking amiably to her brother about the upcoming war. They were to go together into the thick of things, Maurice and Edwin. Silly boys to fight against the Germans. She thought her brother a fool, he was leaving behind his heartbroken mother and his work-worn sister to fight a man's war.

She knew he was mature beyond his years but she still hated him. Hated him for dragging her brother into the French Army (even though they had been conscripted), hated him for being able to do the right thing so easily when all she wanted was to lock Maurice up until it was all over.

He spotted her often - Maurice's older sister, who always so stubborn and defensive. They were two opposites as far as siblings went, she was angry at Maurice for choosing the war over family, and he was angry at her for the exact same reasons, only flipped. But what choice was there for either of them? They were to capture the land up until the Siegfried Line and hold the border.

He knew she was capable of letting them go, but she hated them both. Hated him especially, he could tell by the way she refused to meet his gaze - the upward tilt of her chin that told him she couldn't stand to be in his presence when he talked Maurice about the _Wehrmacht_ in Poland.

_They never see the hate that's in your head ..._

_-.-.-_

_But he was gone when autumn came ..._

The last day before they where shipped off for training was filled with tearful goodbyes from families and friends. Maurice had pressed a letter into her hand for their mother, who had been to ill to come to see him off. Evelyn took the letter, but slapped him hard across the face, staining his cheeks with colour before flinging her arms around him in a strangle-hold. Maurice's arms came around weakly to hug her as Evelyn buried her face into his shoulder.

"You'd better - better come home." Her muffled voice cracked in the middle of the sentence.

As the amusement from her temporary assault faded away, Edwin felt embarrassed to witness this show of emotion from the girl who had always kept her heartfelt feelings locked away. Evelyn was extremely headstrong; protective of her younger brother and frail mother. With their father long gone, she worked more than her entire family combined to keep them afloat. In some ways, it proved the point she often made about how Maurice was not yet old enough to leave. In other ways, it didn't matter how old he was, in the end he would simply be one man of many.

Evelyn had been terrified of war ever since she was little. The finely spun tales her father used to tell her and Maurice when they were children had only frightened her. The idea of useless bloodshed stole itself into her mind, leaving behind the voices of crying orphans and childless mothers. Tales of World War I had become common over the past week, this being the first week of the new war. This, coupled with the fact that they lived in one of the border towns near Germany, did little to stiffen her resolve that Maurice and Edwin would come home.

As she pulled away from Maurice, Edwin examined her face for traces of tears, but found none. He couldn't quite describe how he felt seeing her not cry, since it weighed the idea of her being strong against the idea of her not letting Maurice know how much she truly cared for him before he left.

Evelyn approached him then, and without thinking he took a half-step back. Her face flinched, just enough for him to see the crack in her mask before it resumed it's normal blankness. An apologetic look flashed across his face.

"You're not going to hit me too, are you?"

It was meant as a joke, but quick as a flash her nose was once again upturned as she gazed at him through narrowed eyes.

"I meant to tell you to look after Maurice," she paused, as if assessing him momentarily, "and to come home too."

"I promise," he told her quickly, glad for the reprieve.

She waited until she saw the relieved smile stretched across his face before turning away. Evelyn's first priority was for her brother to live, but it didn't stop her from feeling guilty about not acknowledging the true sacrifices he and Edwin were making.

"God, Evelyn, the things you do," Maurice shook his head at her as she returned to his side, still nursing his now bruised cheek.

She swung a loose arm around his shoulder, smiling. "You mean the things I do for you," she tapped his nose affectionately. Her heart hurt with the goodbye she wanted to say, but Evelyn couldn't bring herself to be weak. Emotions made people weak, she'd learned that lesson long ago. No one cared if you cried, or if you got burned at the factory. You were useful as long as you remained stoic.

"Right," Maurice sighed, as if she was tiring him with her words. "_Ma petite sœur_. I'll miss you." It was his affectionate name for her, 'little sister'. The fact that she was older than him - and never neglected to remind him about it - had always been a sore spot for him.

Edwin turned away from them and went to join the rest of the men who had no family to see them off. His father might have been proud of him, but that didn't mean he cared enough to spend the day by his son's side. They would not see Evelyn again for maybe five years, and Edwin found that it hurt more than it should have.

_There's a pain goes on and on ..._

-.-.-

_Will you join in our crusade?**  
**_

They'd trained for what had seemed like forever. Maurice appeared to become more disheartened as it wore on. Partly, Edwin blamed himself for it. Partly, he blamed their commanding officer, who was a brutal man who showed no mercy.

Part of Edwin prayed for it to end, too.

Weapons and Maurice made for a poor match, since Maurice had a terrible time with the aiming aspect. With Edwin's help, however, he managed to improve well enough to survive Jaquet's wrath.

Edwin himself was an excellent shot and a wonderful teacher. While the men were not under Jaquet's watchful gaze, they looked to Edwin as a sort of leader. There was a number of them bunked together, Maurice, Edwin, Jolin, Julien, Combes, Coyne, Ferrand, Bayard, Lisle, and a rather pessimistic man named Grégoire.

Together, they formed some sort of camaraderie - the kind of friendship that held fast even in the face of punishment. When Grégoire was discovered piss-drunk at 5h00 with alcohol from god-knew-where, they worked together to lift the intoxicated man back to his bunk, and Jolin covered for the lot of them when Jaquet came by saying Grégoire was ill. After the hangover had let up, Grégoire had been pleased with the new excuse he had to miss out on the early morning runs.

Evelyn had only written to Maurice at first, only tagging on a few lines in her often shaky script wishing Edwin well, but soon it increased to the point where the now separate letters she wrote Edwin were longer than the ones she wrote Maurice. If Maurice noticed this, he said nothing.

-.-.-

"Evelyn? This some mistress you've been keeping from me? You've been holding out on us, Edwin!" Grégoire accused, clapping a hand on Edwin's shoulder. Edwin had been trying to read Evelyn's latest letter, but it appeared that it was not going to happen any time soon.

"She's not a mistress - she's Maurice's sister," Edwin managed to bite out. This did not help matters, Edwin realized belatedly as Grégoire's eyes widened in sparkling amusement. Drunk or no, sometimes he could be a nuisance. Still, Edwin couldn't find it in himself to treat Grégoire as anything other than a friend. Somehow even while he was inebriated the man managed to stay likable, despite how often he bordered on the line of insolence.

"Seeing _Maurice's_ sister? You saucy devil!" Grégoire laughed loudly as Edwin buried his head in his hands, rubbing his scalp through his thick blonde hair. "You've got it bad, my friend. What are you doing here, when you could be with her-" Grégoire shifted his hips in an obscene gesture that made Edwin want to throw the drunk out bodily, "-in bed?"

"Go away, Grégoire."

"Sure thing, Apollo." The man gave him a salute before exiting, no doubt off to tell the rest of the men this new information regarding their unspoken, lion-haired leader. Even sober, Grégoire wouldn't have been able to keep it to himself, Edwin mused in a resigned fashion as he returned to the paper. It was a lost cause. He'd been lucky enough to get away with it for as long as he had, anyways. Evelyn had written about an odd sense of déjà vu regarding some gown that she thought was amusing ...

-.-.-

Little compliments had begun to seep their way into Edwin's letters, though she had tried not to notice. She was seated in her room by herself, reading Edwin's latest letter by candlelight as to not disturb her mother. It was nice writing to Edwin and teasing him. After Edwin had told her about Grégoire's affectionate nickname for him, she'd started addressing her letters with 'Dear Apollo'. He had told her to stop in nearly every letter after the first one, but Evelyn could tell it was only half-hearted.

"_Dear Apollo,_" she whispered, tracing the letters onto the page, "_How goes your chariot racing?_"

Perhaps she was growing fond of him - just a little bit. She wouldn't allow herself anything closer than that - because what was the use of being fond of him when he was going off to war? She already worried enough about her brother, she didn't need to additionally fret about Edwin, who could surely handle himself if he could handle his friends.

-.-.-

"Chariot racing?" Maurice interrupted in a bemused voice, looming over a currently seated Edwin. "Perhaps there is more to Grégoire's drunken ramblings that meets the eye. You must be smitten with her if you're letting her call you Apollo."

"I'm not, I keep telling her not to - she thinks it's funny," Edwin replied, snatching the letter back from Maurice so he could finish reading it. He didn't seem to be able to read his letters in peace anymore - someone would always come along and read over his shoulder or take the letter to read aloud in front of the others. Inwardly, he was a bit pleased at the fact that they cared enough to be interested, but that came after reading Evelyn's letters in private. Her words for him weren't meant for sharing with the others.

"I think it's amusing as well, but you don't see me asking how your chariot races are going, Edwin," scoffed Coyne from across the room. Edwin shook his head, giving his friend a patronizing smile.

"You're all just jealous!" He wasn't sure what made him say it, but it sent all of his friends into loud bouts of laughter, which, eventually, Edwin joined in on.

-.-.-

A few months later they were told France was joining the war against the Germans. They were to be lead into Germany's Western territory.

Maurice could not have been more pleased at the news - it meant they would finally be doing something other than early morning runs and drills. Edwin was both excited and nervous at the chance to prove himself in war, but the face he showed his comrades was that of a man who was made out of marble - a man who showed no fear. He was their rock - their leader - their Apollo. He would not fail them._  
_

He and Maurice made plans to stop by their hometown (as they lived in a bordertown, it was likely where they would stop for supplies before they left for Germany) to see Evelyn. Evelyn had not been able to afford to go visit them before, but now they would go to see her. Maurice was happy, and although the men would tease him endlessly about it - so was Edwin.

-.-.-_  
_

When they arrived, both Edwin and Maurice searched the crowd for her. Evelyn saw the two of them first, looking for all the world like two lost puppies. Edwin spotted her before Maurice did, his blue eyes sparkling as their gazes met. She was wearing her new dress, the pretty plum-coloured one she had mentioned.

It had been in the shop window of a boutique that she would have never gone into normally - there was no money in her budget for expensive gowns and the like, usually - but the dress that had seemed startlingly familiar. Upon closer inspection the dress was rather plainer than she had thought it to be - which ended up being a good thing, since it was more affordable. After an uncomfortable period of time filled with withering stares from the shop girl, Evelyn had finally caved in and purchased it. Evelyn justified the purchase with the fact that she had been due for a new dress anyhow. In reality, she may have been thinking of a certain blond-haired, blue-eyed soldier.

She approached her two boys now - at first with small steps, then large, leaping ones - and tackled an unsuspecting Maurice.

"Hello!" she exclaimed cheerfully to them both. Some of the other men who were watching the exchange snickered.

Maurice's face was red as he picked up his sister, swinging her around in a circle. "Evelyn! glad to see me in one piece?"

"Of course! Glad to see you and Edwin both," she added, turning to face the latter, her arms still wrapped around her brother's neck.

"Evelyn," Edwin pulled a hand out from where it had been stuffed deep into a pocket in greeting. The smile he remembered Evelyn usually reserved for Maurice spread across her lips. He couldn't help but smile back. "I'm guessing you got my last letter then?"

Evelyn released Maurice from his chokehold and angled herself so she was facing them both. "I sure did," she nodded, "both of your letters."

"I thought you'd be mad we dropped by without telling you," Maurice sheepishly remarked, rumpling his curly hair with his now-free hand.

"I'm not mad 'bout that," Evelyn assured him, "I'm mad that you both aren't staying here!" A frown creased her brow as she punched Maurice's shoulder.

"Ow! Evelyn!"

"You know, maybe your sister should enroll as a soldier instead, Maurice," said a drawling voice. "She seems like she could hold her own."

"I'm guessing you're Grégoire," Evelyn smirked at the drunkard.

"Guilty as charged," the man held up his bottle before taking a sweeping bow. "And I am pleased to finally meet the _mademoiselle_ who's gotten our Apollo smitten."

"I'm not smitten!"

Evelyn watched Edwin struggle to maintain a neutral, slightly detached expression with amusement. She poked her tongue out at the now-laughing men as she strode over to Edwin and slung an arm around his shoulders. She felt Edwin stiffen at her side for a moment, but what she hadn't seen was Grégoire mouthing 'saucy devil' at him from behind her.

"You're all just jealous!" she declared dramatically.

"_Tres_ r_omantique_! Edwin said the same thing about you last month! Ah, two halves of the same soul, I'll bet you anything. Whatever happens to one, happens to the other." One of the men remarked to another, who nodded in agreement. Evelyn wondered idly whether this was the poet, Julien, that Edwin had written about. She felt as if she knew most of them already. Perhaps she had seen them in passing on the street at some moment in her life.

"Those two haven't got a prayer!" Grégoire countered, "Lovesick fools, the both of them."

"Obviously your definition of 'lovesick' is a lot more than a little different than mine," Edwin grumbled.

"Come Apollo, let's get something to eat. I didn't beg the day off work for nothing, you know." Evelyn grabbed his arm along with Maurice's and proceeded to drag them off. Spending time with Edwin ought to be a lot more fun than writing to him was, she reasoned.

-.-.-

"So are the two of you actually -" Maurice gestured at the space between his sister and his friend, "- together?" He saw the discomfort of Edwin's face for a brief moment - saw the light blush that coated Evelyn's cheeks. Oh, _merde_, he thought to himself. His thick-headed as he could be sometimes, he could definitely tell the difference between a focused-Edwin and a distracted-Edwin. "If you are, you ought to tell me, you know. I promise I won't tell Grégoire or any of the others." Maurice allowed a bit of the smugness he felt about figuring the two of them out show on his face. All he needed now was the verbal confirmation.

"Don't you have more important things to worry about - like finding yourself a girl?" Edwin silently applauded his Evelyn's attempt to avoid the topic.

"I've got lots of time for that!" Maurice declared, raising his glass to them both. "Love is the garden of the young, Evelyn, and you and Edwin are fast approaching the gate!"

"You swine!" Evelyn retorted, but she was laughing all the same. "I thought I was your _petite sœur_!"

"You, my friend, have had a bit too much to drink," Edwin added, much to Maurice's dismay. He'd wanted to get a confession out of them both - he wanted nothing more than to see Evelyn happy; to see Edwin happy - but the two of them seemed intent on avoiding any chance at a relationship with each other. Morosely, Maurice clinked his glass against Edwin's stationary one and took a long drink.

-.-.-

"So, is there anything I can do for you before I go? Chores around the house? Leaky roofs to be fixed?" Maurice had begun rambling somewhere after his second drink. The young man did not hold liquor very well, it seemed.

"Just come home," Evelyn said without smiling, all jokes and laughter forgotten now in face of somber reality. "Just come home, that's what you can do for me." If he came home everything would be alright.

Maurice nodded, and they were both quiet for a moment, her arm now resting lightly on his shoulder.

"Mama and I will pray for you everyday," she told him quietly.

Maurice's hand reached to stroke her hair gently, trying vainly to make the messy brown curls tame. "I know you will."

Inside, Edwin knew, he would be praying for Maurice to come home too, if only for Evelyn's sake.

-.-.-

The last day of their visit held the same mood as the end of their afternoon out did - a quiet, thoughtful one.

"You know, I never told you how nice you look in that dress, Evelyn," Maurice said, giving his sister a wistful smile. It startled Edwin, mainly because he could have sworn that the dress wasn't new at all, and that it had been accompanied by a pair of white gloves. Evelyn never wore gloves, however. Why would she? She was a working girl. Edwin knew for a fact her hands were calloused and rough from work. He shook his head back and forth a few times, trying to clear his mind.

"Figures it would be the last thing you notice, Maurice. You're such a boy." Evelyn sighed, ruffling her brother's hair lovingly as she stood on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek. Maurice blushed, and Edwin felt a pang of jealousy - which was honestly ridiculous because Maurice was her brother, not her suitor. The two siblings were wrapped in a warm embrace, and Evelyn had buried her face into her brother's brown curls.

"Come home. Promise." Evelyn's voice was cracked and hoarse as Maurice struggled to maintain his composure. If he cried, it would do them both no good.

"I promise. I promise. _Je t'aime_, Evelyn."

Evelyn's face spoke of times gone by, of sunshine and happy childhood memories that only the two of them had shared.

"_Je t'aime, aussi_." She wiped away at the tiny tears that had formed in her eyes and dried her damp hands on her skirts. There was a moment as she composed herself. Edwin hoped that she would miss him as much as she would miss Maurice; hoped that she would kiss him goodbye as well.

Edwin watched as she turned to face him. She might not have been conventionally beautiful, but he thought she was lovely - pretty, even. Her eyes shone with emotion and quiet laughter, a startling change from the normal, detached demeanor she usually wore around him. Evelyn approached with quick, fleeting steps, looking as if her feet floated above the ground. Her arms wrapped around him briefly - her cheek resting on his shoulder for a second before she pulled away.

There was a moment when she stared at him with her large brown eyes. Suddenly, Edwin thought that she was going to kiss him.

Edwin leaned in slightly then, and Evelyn blinked quickly before taking a half-step back. He flinched, even as the apologetic look flashed across her face.

"Be safe," she told him instead.

"I will," he told her, trying not to let the crushing feeling of disappointment show.

_Who will be strong and stand with me?_

-.-.-

_Red - the blood of angry men ..._

Then they were gone. They were all gone. Taken by force by the German army. Wounded and dead, by the hundreds. By the force of those deadly mines. Edwin knew they'd been foolishly optimistic for too long. Their slow trek across the German territory had been so easily thwarted once the Germans had put themselves to battle, especially after they had been ordered to withdraw. They'd been outmaneuvered - therefore they'd lost the Siegfried Line - and they'd lost the battle.

Maurice had been fatally wounded, and it was all Edwin could do to keep the poor boy alive.

His shoulders ached as he dragged the unconscious body towards the shrubbery. Maurice had lost a good part of his leg, and was now delirious with pain.

"_Evelyn_," Maurice gasped, shaking and pale from loss of blood. "_Evelyn ... tell ... 'mm sorry_."

"Quiet!" Edwin moaned, glancing nervously over his shoulder. Maurice's life had been entrusted to him, whether he'd wanted it to be or not. He owed Evelyn to at least try, even if it cost him his own life. He would do it for Evelyn, whether she'd asked to do it or not. He loved Evelyn enough to at least try. Even if it cost him his own life.

Crouched low, Edwin hovered over Maurice, thinking. The difficulty in returning to safer land was in avoiding the mines that the Germans had so generously planted around the area. To do that, he wouldn't be able to go dragging Maurice all over the ground. He'd have to carry him, which would also slow him down.

_-.-.-_

_What's the use of praying, if there's nobody who hears?_

Evelyn was working with the machinery as cautiously as she could, attempting to teach the idiotic new girl how to use it. Still, she was more distracted than usual, as her thoughts kept constantly flickering back to the two young men she had seen off at the start of autumn. News was notoriously slow, even though they were so close. Were they alright? Were they alive?

No, she couldn't allow herself to think about that. Each evening she lit a candle and prayed to God that they would return unscathed. So far all the news had been good, France's divisions had been slowly trudging across German territory, seizing area that had been seemingly abandoned by German militia. Now that they were supposed to retreat, Evelyn hoped she would see them soon.

The girl nudged her shoulder then, and some inane question spilled out of her pretty pink lips. "Listen up, _Alouette_," Evelyn snapped, not realizing what she was saying. The blond girl looked confused for a moment, and opened her mouth to say so, but Evelyn just closed her eyes and shook her head.

Resisting the urge to snap again, Evelyn re-began her explanation - even as one last, traitorous thought about her blond-haired, blue-eyed soldier wedged it's way through to the forefront of her mind.

_Is he thinking of me?_

-.-.-

_Could it be you fear to die?_

He'd never felt stronger in his life as he slung Maurice over his still-aching shoulders. The muscles protested loudly at this mistreatment, but Edwin gritted his teeth and ignored it. All he could see in his mind's eye was Evelyn's determined eyes, whether she was slapping her brother soundly across the face or hugging him close. Or when she was telling him that he was to look after her brother in her stead and telling him that she hoped that he would come home too.

The clearest, most recent memory of her standing so close to him, lips pursued in what could have been an attempt at a kiss if she had not pulled away before he'd been able to react, stood out above the others.

Was she thinking of them, praying for them as she had promised?

_Is she thinking of me? _

No, he couldn't allow himself to think about that. Not when the very life she had asked him to protect was at stake.

Edwin continued his treacherous journey across the field.

-.-.-

_Take my hand, I lead you to salvation ..._

She didn't notice as the girl's hand slipped on the lever -

_-.-.-_

_Take my love, for love is everlasting ..._

He couldn't have known the mine was planted there -

-.-.-

"Stop!" The cry startled Evelyn out of her reverie as one of her friends knocked the girl's - _Alouette's_, whispered a tiny part of her brain - hand aside and shifted the lever back to it's original position.

Evelyn paled considerably, turning to face Adélie. "That -"

Adélie's frightened expression mirrored her own as she spoke. "Sound the alarm." Her friend's voice was a hoarse whisper. Even as they spoke, the other nearby workers took notice and began to flee the building. Adélie turned to face the new girl. "This is your fault, you shouldn't have done that, you go alert the others."

"No," Evelyn found herself saying. "It was my fault, I was distracted. Both of you get out," she gazed at their shocked, unmoving forms. "Get out!"

The new girl did not waste any more time as she bolted for the exit, abandoning her bonnet in the process. The blue material fluttered to the ground, a stark contrast to the pale concrete.

"Evelyn ... be careful." Adélie watched Evelyn in breathless amazement for a second more before turning to leave.

Sparks began to emit from the machine as Evelyn pulled her bonnet down so that it rested around her neck. The air was beginning to fill with a thick smoke that seeped past her clothes and settled itself on her skin. Gathering her skirts in one hand, she ran towards what she knew as the closest alarm and yanked it hard. Evelyn tugged her bonnet up to cover her mouth and started for the exit. The smoke was so dense now, it was hard to see -

-.-.-

"Stop!" A tall, dark-haired man shouted from a few feet away. Edwin recognized him as a fellow officer, an older one who mostly kept to himself. "Don't move, _monsieur! _You'll trip the landmine!"

Horrified, Edwin swayed dangerously on the spot before steadying himself. In his haste to bring Maurice to safety, he had neglected to keep an eye on the ground. His foot had already pulled on the wire. If he so much as moved his foot, the explosion would be upon them with hundreds of steel balls. Maurice's still body weighed heavily on his back. "How -"

The man gave a terrified glance to Maurice's unmoving form before pointing to the spot where the mine was undoubtedly planted. "Drop him, _monsieur_. If you lower the body on top of it," his hands made the gesture, "you may be able to step away. You do not want that _silent soldier_ to go off."

"No," Edwin spoke in a hushed tone. His heart pounded loud and fast as he made his decision. "Take him, good _monsieur_. I've promised the sister of this young man that he would make it home in one piece."

"Are you sure?" The man asked, looking concerned. "He is wounded, he might not even last the rest of the day, from the looks of him. You, however, still have a long life ahead of you."

The gunshots rang through the air behind them as Edwin stood, clutching Maurice to his shoulder. "Take him," he repeated. The soldier approached cautiously, and hefted Maurice onto his own sturdy shoulders.

"I shall see you again in paradise, good _monsieur_." The tall man gave him a respectful salute with his free arm. "Give me a few moments to reach safety, and once we are clear I will call upon you. I promise your sacrifice shall be remembered. This young man will live; I swear this on my own life."

Edwin smiled slightly, carefully wiping the sweat that had gathered on his brow. "_Merci_."

-.-.-

_It is the music of a people who are climbing to the light ..._

The explosion was coming. It hurt to know it was coming. To stand rooted to the spot in panic and fear, to know death was coming for you as surely as it did for everyone - only that yours was much, much sooner. To know that soon your body would be engulfed in fire and flames, regardless of whether you burned.

-.-.-

_For the wretched of the earth ..._**  
**

In one ridiculous, fleeting moment, Evelyn wished she had kissed him goodbye before he had left.

-.-.-

_There is a flame that never dies ..._

Edwin's last prayer was that she would hear of his sacrifice and know that he had done it all for her.

-.-.-

_Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise ..._

A tall figure stood, supporting another, smaller figure as the smoke and dust settled.

"Your sacrifice will not be forgotten."

* * *

AN: I was writing this and realized belatedly that one time instead of 'Edwin' I wrote 'Enjolras'. Such is life. I'm going to tell you what I told the readers of my other story (Harry Potter fanfiction), which is that progress updates can be found periodically on my **Author Profile**. As for this one, I didn't really go through and edit it a whole lot (didn't really for the last one either, but this one I read through only for spelling errors ... ), and I moved a whole bunch of bits and pieces around. If it makes no sense, I apologize deeply. Okay - now on to the rest of the Author's Notes! As always, the historical part can be found near the end. :)

In case of confusion, the fourth-last and last parts were written to be from two different points-of-view. The part following '_music of a people_' is Evelyn and Edwin, and '_the darkest night will end_' is Adélie (Azelma) supporting the new girl (Cosette) and the soldier who saved Maurice (Jean Valjean) supporting Maurice, of course.

You will have noticed a lot of overlap between this cycle and the two previous ones. (The dress and gloves, 'Apollo', 'Alouette'.) This is because they're experiencing feelings of déjà vu along with very, very, very faint memories of their past lives. I hope the parallels I drew between Edwin and Evelyn's situations weren't too confusing overall, but the main point was supposed to be that they died at the same time.

I know I killed them both off again, but I swear it's going to be better, just stick with me on this!

I positively enjoyed writing Enjolras and Grantaire, mainly because their relationship is so dynamic and amusing to me. Between Grantaire and Eponine, it's fun to watch them bring Enjolras to his wits' end. Completely unrelated - I know I've been writing Enjolras as blonde since that's how he's officially described, but in my mind I'm picturing Ramin Karimloo. Just putting that out there. As for Eponine, I don't really have an actress in mind, although I suppose it would be Samantha Barks, as she is the only one I've ever seen as Eponine.

Regarding Eponine's character development, she's definitely starting to feel more fond of Enjolras, if you couldn't tell. I had decided for him to fall for her first, mainly because I saw Eponine's ties to Marius harder to sever. Even in this chapter, she's not quite sure about how she feels about Enjolras, you'll recall she states that she thinks fondly of him, but that's all. She does tease a bit in this chapter, I consider that to be her way of dancing around how she feels.

The idea as they continue to reincarnate is that Eponine begins to see Marius as more of a friend and a brother than a love interest. I hope this makes things a bit more clear. The next reincarnation will absolutely have them more romantically involved, yay! There will probably be two or so more reincarnations before this story is done (unless someone wants to freaky futuristic-space thing, which I doubt makes a good setting for these two).

Last little bit before I move on - I've started a new LesMis story, which is mainly character drabbles. If you like my writing please go check that one out! The first chapter is up, and it features one-sided E/R as it's pairing.

I have some school stuff going on right now, so there might be a bit of a delay before the next chapter. However, this one is pretty long, so I hope it makes up for that. Okay, I think I've rambled enough about everything now, let's move on.

-.-.-

Historically, the Saar Offensive takes place at the beginning of WWII, shortly after France joins in. While the German forces are deployed in Poland, France sends in it's divisions to seize the area between the Siegfried Line and the French border on September 3rd. At first, everything is successful and they begin to gain control over the area. The French begin to slow their aggressive invasion. On September 30 the French army is ordered to retreat. In mid-October the Germans launch their attack and reclaim most of their territory.

After this the Phoney War begins.

Again, I'm no history teacher, I did some brief research on the Saar Offensive so I could have the setting for the story. I know nothing about French armies, German armies and all of that. I'm really sorry if it's inaccurate, but I'm not really writing this for just the history's sake.

The 'silent soldier' mentioned is a S-mine, which is a kind of trip-wire explosive. It's described as a tin-can shaped object that, when activated, is thrown into the air, and shortly after explodes, sending a large amount of shrapnel flying.

As for the factory part, I did basically no research on that, essentially something just malfunctioned and a small machine or somesuch blew up a small(ish?) area. I know it's not well planned, but ahhh, what else could I have done? Cornier things have happened, really.

Overall, I'm not 100% happy with this chapter, but after meddling with it for a while it doesn't seem to be getting any better or easier ... Hopefully that's just me being really picky with it as I compare it to the last one. If there's something I should fix, tell me! I'm open to criticism.

Please read and review! I love checking my e-mail and reading all the nice things you have to say about my story, it really means a lot to me!


	6. Aftermath: Maurice Visited

Together: Aftermath  
by always-a-time  
[_Marius X Cosette_]

I have no idea how this happened. I swear Éponine just went up to Maurice all on her own without asking me. She's like that in my mind. And then Enjolras wanted his turn so ... anyways, poor Maurice thinks he's going mad now, but enjoy anyways!  
Warning: Minor graphic descriptions of Maurice's injuries.

* * *

Maurice Visited - 1939

* * *

The temperature outside had taken a turn for the worse. Colette tried to keep the threadbare blankets over her soldier's weakly kicking legs as he tossed and turned in his sleep. He was in no shape to travel - but it wasn't as if they had had a choice. She could hear her brother pacing worriedly outside, restless. Jean had not said too much about the young man's circumstances, only that he'd been wounded in battle and that he'd promised a fellow soldier to look after him. Colette had found something remarkably familiar about his features, and took to watching him mumble in his sleep to try and find out why. Had she seen him somewhere before?

The answer came on a that cold October night. Hallo'ween, to be exact.

She was stoking the fire in the inn they were staying at. Colette was forever thankful that her parents had left her and Jean enough to survive as they moved towards the center of France. Things were not getting much better for those few who had fled the border towns. Many had no place to go.

The lively flames sparked and jumped at her as she prodded the wooden logs, teasing her shivering hands and feet with its flickering warmth.

Suddenly she heard a groan from behind her. Quick as a mouse, Colette scurried to his side and placed a cool hand on his forehead.

"_'Mhhrrm_ ... " he mumbled through thin, pale lips. "_'s-s-sorr - eee_." He swallowed, and Colette held her breath, waiting for a name, a place, anything. "_F-froid._" Then, more clearly - "Evelyn."

Colette couldn't feel her cold fingers and toes anymore. "Evelyn, Evelyn, Evelyn?" The whispered name forced its way out of her throat again and again. "My God. Evelyn, now I remember - Evelyn, how can it be?" The factory girl who'd saved her life. Who'd died saving Colette's life! Who'd taken her place to raise the alarm and told her to flee. Was this man her lover - husband - friend - brother - cousin?

Jealousy very nearly swept over her then, mainly because over the past week or so she'd begun to fall for this charming, wounded soldier. She poked around in her memories of Evelyn, trying to recall his name. M-something. Marius? Matthieu, perhaps? It was on the tip of her tongue, she was sure.

Colette brushed away some stray curls, willing him to speak in her mind. He did not. She covered him with another blanket and resumed her spot by the fireplace, as she was now too worked up to sleep properly. Perhaps she was simply dreaming that he would wake up and fall in love with her.

* * *

Maurice was dreaming. He was standing in the middle of an empty cafe - a very old, shabby one, by the looks of it - and next to him was Evelyn. Only, only she was not Evelyn. Snow had fallen outside the cafe, and suddenly Maurice felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead.

The woman - girl, his mind told him, she's too young to be a woman, really - had his sister's wide brown eyes, but the similarities seemed to end there.

After all, the Émilie he knew was taller, fuller, prettier. She did not wear rags like this girl did, and she certainly did not dress as a boy.

Evelyn, he corrected, frustrated with himself. Why was this dream so complicated? Why was he having trouble remembering his sister's name?

_Evelyn, Evelyn, Evelyn?_ The echoes of a sweet, melodious voice seeped into his ears. Maurice shook them away. He didn't want to wake up yet - it hurt when he woke up.

The girl by his side - Éponine, some part of him insisted - was watching him with a mixture of amusement and affection.

"Figured it out yet, Marius? Why we're here, like this? You've always been smart, Marius, even though you're a bit -" she cut herself off abruptly.

He had no idea. He shook his head. "My name is Maurice."

"Your name is Matthieu, too. We've had lots of names, Marius." Her head cocked to the side, and now he could see that even though her clothes were shabby, her face was clean and free of the usual streaks and smudges of grime that coated the poor.

"I'm Maurice," he insisted stubbornly.

"You are, just like I'm Evelyn. Just like Edwin is Enjolras. Don't know why I never saw it b'fore," Éponine - he had decided to call her that, for his sanity's sake - said, shaking out her hair, which was just as clean as the rest of her.

Maurice was having a hard time hearing her speak through her street accent. He wondered, briefly, if Evelyn could sound like that if she tried it. "Why am I here, then?"

"You're halfway there," Éponine sadly. "Not here, not there." She sat herself down on the dusty floor, patting the ground next to her. Hesitantly, Maurice joined her. "It's okay, though, you're here now. An' soon you'll be back there, with Cosette, the little lark. Soon." Her face scrunched up a tiny bit, but she did not look too displeased. "S'pose she'll always be Alouette to me. But let's not talk about her. Where's Enjolras? What happened to him?"

"Enjolras?" Maurice was trying desperately to keep up with Éponine, but he kept getting lost along the way. His mind was telling him and showing him what Éponine was saying was true, but he found it hard to straighten out his thoughts. He saw himself, in terribly outdated clothing. Marius Pontmercy. Had that been his name, some time ago?

"Edwin, then. Where'd he go?" Éponine looked impatient, then relented. "I know s'hard at first, tryin' to sort out what's now and what's then, but you don't need to worry 'bout that, Maurice." The tone in which she said his name was a bit mocking, probably because she wanted to call him Marius instead.

"He ... died," Maurice said slowly, trying to force his sluggish brain to remember the facts. "He saved my life. He set off the s-mine. He died."

"He must've moved on already, then. Or he's somewhere else," she sighed. "I was hopin' to see him b'fore he did. I should've been a bit nicer to him, really. We never really talked about us, y'know. Even with you and Grantaire stirring up all that trouble about him likin' me, we never talked about us."

"Moved on ... " Maurice echoed briefly.

"Ah, well, I'll see him again in a bit, I'm sure. He's probably just first t'go, that's all. Funny, that, 'cause I was first last time. Guess it's his turn now."

Maurice shifted his legs nervously, "Will I be okay when I wake up, Éponine?"

"'Ponine, you used to call me that, y'know? Little 'Ponine. You should be goin' soon, Maurice. And don't you worry about me 'n Edwin. We'll be seeing you eventually," Éponine continued evasively.

Maurice did not know what else to ask, and 'Little 'Ponine' did not offer any more information. "So now we wait?"

"We wait," Éponine affirmed, taking his hand in her and braiding her soft fingers with his. "Together."

Together, they sat on the floorboards of the Musain and waited for Maurice to awaken.

* * *

Weeks later he was sitting up, fully aware of his surroundings. His blurry eyes took in the sight of the shabby, plain room. He tried to speak, to call out - but a wheezing croak eased out of his dry throat instead. There was a startled shout from outside, and a yellow figure blurred into the room.

"You're awake!" The squeaking hurt his ears, making him scrunch up his already-scrunched face.

"Oh, _excusez-moi_, I didn't mean to be loud," she whispered, inching closer. The squeaky girl came into focus - she was stunning. Maurice let out a wheeze of surprise as he tried to prop himself up further.

"Here, let me help," she wrapped soft arms around his waist and awkwardly adjusted his position against the headboard.

Maurice smiled weakly at her, feeling dizzy from the sweet flowery scents that were encompassing his head space. It occurred to him that he probably wasn't smelling as nice as he'd like to, which he didn't like at all. He opened his mouth, slowly forcing each muscle in his jaw into action, and tried to speak again.

"Hush!" The blonde angel insisted, now dabbing at his forehead with a cool cloth. "Rest. I'll redo your bandages -" Maurice was finding it harder to concentrate, so he gave up and closed his eyes. "- you're safe here, Maurice. I will never go away. I will be by your side everyday." He felt her soft fingers - so like Éponine's, only somehow even softer, probably because it had only been a dream - stroke his damp hair.

Maurice smiled - or tried his best to - before sleep and fatigue overtook him once more.

* * *

Maurice found himself precariously perched on top of an extremely battered piano in the middle of the street. Stumbling, he grabbed onto the nearest thing to steady himself - a pole that led to a large, bullet-riddled red flag. He stood there, staring at it for a moment, trying to place its familiarity. Finally, Maurice sighed and began to climb down the pile of furniture, brushing off some wood dust and splinters from his pants.

He knew who would be waiting for him at the bottom before he even got there.

"Maurice," Enjolras greeted him, smiling benevolently at the flag that flew above them. "Isn't it beautiful? Patria. The country and the girl. Your daughter. Ta fille." The man's lips quirked in a way that confused Maurice. Somehow humor and this man - who looked like Edwin as Éponine had looked like Evelyn - did not seem to fit well. together. "I used to call Patria my mistress, when we were fighting here," Enjolras gestured at the barricade surrounding them, "I don't suppose I'll be able to do that in good conscience anymore," the revolutionary gave a wry grin that did not help settle Maurice's nerves, "Éponine might kill me."

Maurice wasn't quite sure what to say to that.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras apologized, looking more serious now, "I'm forgetting myself - Maurice, I'm unsure about how much Éponine told you, but from the look on your face, it may be safe to say very little."

"I don't understand a single thing. Éponine kept calling me Marius at first and I -" Maurice broke off, grabbing at his hair in frustration as he tried to slow the river of words pouring out of his mouth. "- why am I seeing you in my dreams? Am I dead now? I remember ... someone was taking care of me. In a room somewhere." _And she was beautiful,_ he neglected to add, because somehow he felt Enjolras wouldn't appreciate him mooning over some girl he hadn't even properly met yet.

"You are far from dead, my friend. You still have a whole life ahead of you. When tomorrow comes, Cosette will be by your side," Enjolras assured him. "Éponine and I, on the other hand ... we are the ones who are gone, Maurice. Éponine and I - your Evelyn and Edwin, are gone."

"_Non. C'est pas vrai!_" Horror stole over Maurice and ice water flooded his heart. His sister, his loving, caring, beautiful Evelyn. Evelyn, who was forever tormenting him and pushing him around, who baked cookies when he was sad, who patched up his skinned knees and kissed his bruises better when they were little.

"No, you - she - can't be!" Edwin, dead? Edwin, who had taught him to aim, who had been by his side through thick-and-thin in the face of every argument and disaster, who had been like a brother to him and to all the men they had trained with. "No, please, Enjolras. Tell me that it's just a part of the dream."

A shadow seemed to fall over the other man's face as he pulled a chair out from the barricade and braced himself against it. After a pause he offered the chair to Maurice, who's legs were shaking underneath him. Maurice staggered over the few steps towards the proffered seat and collapsed into it.

"I'm sorry, Maurice. I'm sorry we had to leave you." Maurice heard Edwin's remorseful voice from Enjolras' lips. Maurice squeezed his eyes shut.

"I just want to wake up now," he whispered, feeling like a small child as he did so. He looked into the pair of striking blue eyes, trying to find comfort there.

"I'm afraid that's not up to me. It's up to you to wake yourself up, _mon ami_," Enjolras placed a shockingly warm hand on Maurice's shoulder, gripping it lightly. Maurice felt the strength and camaraderie he remembered from the time he spent with their friends. He remembered times gone by, joking with Coyne, listening to Julien's poetry, and even drinking with Grégoire. He remembered his friends and suddenly he did not feel so alone with Enjolras by his side. "We wait together, as we always have."

As the silence stretched on, Maurice reached up to grasp Enjolras' hand with his own. "_Merci, _Enjolras."

* * *

He wasn't sure what time it was when he woke again, but he did know that he felt much better than he had the first time. The girl - Cosette, Maurice remembered Enjolras had called her - was asleep in the chair by his bed. She looked peaceful in her slumber, and Maurice longed to touch the stray curls that had tumbled onto the bedsheets while she slept. Her fingers twitched in her sleep, and her head shifted from its position on her arm. How many nights had she spent curled up by his bedside, tending to him? Guilt and gratitude rose up in his chest, warming his heart.

His twisted his torso experimentally, trying hard not to pull at the bandages wrapped tightly around his leg. Maurice felt the muscle tug before the pain came - he bit down on the soft inside of his cheek in an effort to keep from screaming. Red blood filled his mouth, covering his tongue and teeth with a metalic taste. A frustrated whimper edged its way out, coloring his lips and cheeks along the way. He didn't want to dirty the bedsheets, so he sat there like an idiot with a mouthful of blood, trying to figure out whether or not to wake up his sleeping nurse.

Maurice spotted the cloth sitting in the plain bowl filled with lukewarm water by the bedside. After some careful maneuvering, he managed to retrieve the bowl in shaking hands to spit in. It felt dirty, disgusting even, but he couldn't bring himself to wake up Cosette from her fitful sleep. The reddish color sank into the water, swirling and mixing. Maurice set the bowl back down as fast as he could, not wanting to look at it any longer - some of the water swishing out and spilling over the side. He had seen enough blood for a lifetime.

The clunk of the bowl being set back onto the wooden table stirred the previously unmoving head of curls.

She startled from her slumber, posturing straightening as she stared blankly at him. "You-" Her hand covered her mouth with a look of wonder before she bolted up to retrieve the damp cloth from the dirtied bowl resting on the nightside table. "I'll go clean this, I'll be back - stay here ..." she mumbled absently, her own cheeks flushed as she stood, leaving Maurice to dab at his bloodied lower lip with his fingers.

"Not goin' anywhere," he managed to call after her weakly, an attempt at humour. Maurice could hear her choked, startled laughter as she crossed the doorway.

It was a beautiful sound.

* * *

AN: I looked at all of you followers and was just like 'better update or there will be a revolution and a barricade and then I'll be hearing the song of angry fanfic readers soon'. Anyways, that's what I'm hoping you would all do if I didn't update. Please say you would.

This chapter was really iffy for me, mainly because all this afterlife stuff is driving me bonkers as I try to decide what is too ridiculous to include. I very nearly cut out all of the parts including Éponine and Enjolras ... so feedback on this chapter would be fantastic! As for how that came about ... Éponine just insisted on showing up and confusing the heck out of him. Maurice needed closure, I think, so that's what this was supposed to be. Not to mention we also needed closure.

I hope none of the French is confusing you, I think most of what I add in is pretty basic. I don't want to be confusing you though, so if you want translations at the end I can do that for you! I just kind of see it on par with disclaimers, (this is a fanfiction site, my friends) meaning I think it's a tad useless.

Cosette's name is Colette this time around, but Maurice is calling her Cosette because he doesn't know her actual name, in case you were confused.

Oh, and aside from being clueless about history, I'm clueless about anatomy, medical stuff and whatnot. I'm not Joly. So if Maurice's injury makes no sense it's because it doesn't. I almost wrote 'horse' instead of torso, I have no idea ... probably need a beta or something like that. I really really want to not confuse you all.

The next chapter will probably not be out for a while, spring break approaches in two weeks, so that's when I'll be going at this full-force, and perhaps at last it will be done. I'm so happy all of you are enjoying this story, and I promise I would _never_ abandon it. I bestow virtual hand-crafted tricolors upon all you beautiful followers and reviewers!


	7. The Algerian War - 1954 to 1958

Tarnished  
by always-a-time  
[_Enjolras X Éponine_]

AN: This is the second-to-last reincarnation, yay! (or boo, if you don't want this to end!) To all of you who have been waiting - here's your e/e action. I'm sorry for lack of updates, there are many excuses I can make but let it be known I am a terrible updater. This is the **first half** of this reincarnation, because I want you all to have something before I go back to school. Since this is the only half, I'm fitting in the short Author's Note here instead. Feel free to skip it.

Ahm. I had a really hard time working the sort of plot I wanted within the historical boundaries, since this was originally set to take place during the Vietnam War. I really wanted them to be middle-aged, or at least older than they had been in previous reincarnations, but looking at the years I realized I'd screwed myself over. So don't think too hard about the years (still didn't work that out very well, he's only 15 in the second section below) and we should be okay.

I haven't really written any romance (relationship whatever) before, it's mostly been unrequited (my bad). So hopefully this is not terrible. I'm also having a hard time with names, so suggestions would be awesome! (This time around Grantaire is René, because 'R' is his nickname.) Apologies in advance for any errors I may have.

* * *

The Algerian War - 1954 to 1961

* * *

_It never mattered how they were reborn, for their souls would always be tarnished with the aftermaths of war._

-.-.-

He had been free all his life, that fact was unshakable, regardless of the weighing responsibilities on his shoulders. His name was Éric, and he was not going to let anyone take him away from his family, his sister - not when they needed him the most - not even if it was his country who needed him. She knew what it was like to be trapped, had felt the invisible binding ropes, always tying her to one anchor. Her name was Élise, and she would never let life get the best of her - not while she lived and breathed - not even in the face of death itself.

They would meet long after they had grown up, which suits them fine, because it seems better that way.

She saw him first - which was fitting, too, since she had always been one to watch and wait in the shadows. He hadn't meant much to her then, but even then she could sense something familiar about him. His smile was gentle and so were his words, surprisingly, even to a simple working-class woman like herself.

She didn't know what to think when she decided that she liked him - she wasn't one for romance, really, and yet there was a magnetic pull between her and him - her and all of these young people she surrounded herself with.

He saw her watching him - she seemed to melt into the background, unsurprisingly - he hadn't been sure why it seemed so ordinary for her, when he was just as pretty as any other woman. She hadn't been important then, but he recognized something in her spirit that day. Her mannerisms were odd and out of place, funnily enough, and he found that he liked them.

He didn't know what to do when he realized he craved her attention and her company because every step he took seemed to be closer and closer to hell, a place that he couldn't bear to take her down with him.

_-.-.-_

_The day begins and now let's see ..._

**-October, 1954-**

The dim, filtered sunlight tickled the fine hairs on his forearm, stirring Éric's sleeping body. All tired eyes and weak limbs, he rose sluggishly to dress before checking his sister's bedroom. Éric couldn't be bothered to find a matching waistcoat and cravat, so he sifted through what was available until he found the least-offensive combination, tying the knot of his tie as he bounded out of his room. Upon passing the door to room, he discovered it was emptying. Circling back found Charlotte seated - always seated or lying down - in the main room by the windowsill. The maid must have brought her here for some sunlight.

"_Bon matin, ma sœur_," he greeted her softly, as not to startle her.

She wheeled slightly to face him, an awkward motion that she never seemed to be able to master, even after ten years of practice. There were shiny pink ribbons braided into her plait, which began at the nape of her neck and wrapped around her tiny waist, settling in-between her hands, which rested on her lap. If she was bitter about her life, she never showed it, and for that he found himself profoundly thankful. "It's a lovely day today," she remarked idly, picking at the embroidered pattern on her skirt. Éric resisted the urge to swat her hands away from it. "Maybe we could visit the gardens later, she continued, pushing on the wheels of her chair so she sat in front of him. "After all, winter is coming soon, so we won't have as much good weather, then."

Her wheelchair was wooden, yet finely crafted, with a soft cushion on the bottom and back which had once been embroidered by their mother.

"Later," he agreed readily. He had an education to attend to, after all. Banking (which was what he was aiming for) paid about as well as anything else did, but it was a god, steady job that had not required too much money in the way of education, and not too much time away from family, both of which were extremely important when it came to raising Charlotte. Her small, cool hand touched his lightly in a gesture of reassurance, reviving him from his thoughts.

"Don't you fret, _mon frere_. Everything will be alright." Charlotte was a never-ending fountain of optimism and good cheer. Éric allowed his shoulders to relax and a pleasant smile to spread across his face.

"Of course." He squeezed her shoulder gently. "I best be on my way now." Éric kissed her forehead briefly before departing, grabbing his jacket and bag on the way out.

-.-.-

_What this new world will do for me ..._

**-April, 1958-**

"Éric, you're late," Monsieur Vournier said briskly as Éric hurried in.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'll stay late tomorrow -" Éric hastily promised, remembering he had told Charlotte he would take her out for a stroll in the gardens. It was one of her singular pleasures, and he wasn't about to deny her.

The friendly smile on his boss' face belied his words. "Don't worry too much about it, just make sure to be on time tomorrow. I won't punish you for a singular occurrence, Éric." Silently thanking the heavens for having such a wonderful employer, Éric quickly went to his station.

"What's wrong today?" René, his fellow co-worker, greeted him cheerfully. "You're later than I am, which is saying something. Clarence has been covering your shift."

"And I'll be sure to thank him," Éric responded shortly. The fact that he had arrived later than René spoke volumes about his current state of mind, however.

René's expression became a bit more somber. "Been thinking about the draft again, I see. Well, it's only a matter of time before we're sent out. You should get out and enjoy yourself before it's your turn."

A tick worked its way into Éric's jaw. "I have responsibilities, René. You should try and keep track of your own instead of drinking nights away in local bars. I'm not going anywhere," he sighed, "Charlotte needs me."

"And I was so sure you'd put France before your family," René replied sarcastically. "No doubt you'll be safe at home while the rest of us unburdened fops shall be carted off to our deaths." The man withdrew a flask from god-knew-where and raised it towards Éric in a salute before taking a long drink. "To Charlotte's health and your remaining sanity."

Clarence came in then, shoving René towards the front with a gleeful expression that was not entirely out of place on the man. "Your inebriated presence is required. Get out there. And about time you showed up, Éric, pretty sure René was going to fling himself into oblivion out of worry for you."

With the air of someone who had better things to do than to be insulted, René scowled at Clarence, taking a final swig as he retreated to the teller's position. Relieved of the distraction, Éric returned his attention to the loan payment papers he was supposed to be organizing and checking for mistakes.

"So," Clarence cleared his throat, "how is Charlotte?"

Éric sensed something else behind the pleasantries, but decided to ignore it. "Good, good."

"Don't forget about after the shift," his friend added absently.

After the shift? Ah, _merde_. He'd forgotten about the earlier plans to go celebrate their friend's newly-opened café. In the mainly Muslim neighbourhood, it was to be one of very few French owned and operated establishments.

"I wouldn't forget about it, but I'll have to stop by to fetch Charlotte first. I promised her a walk in the gardens, but I suppose Jean's flower-filled display will have to do."

Clarence nodded, "I'll go by with you, then."

The two worked in companionable silence, but Éric could feel the constant buzz of vibrating tension exuding from his friend. Clarence had a hard time being nonchalant when it came to what he considered a story worth sharing. Finally, when Eric couldn't take it anymore, he caved in, turning to face Clarence, who was rifling through papers.

"Any news on your end?"

"Now that you mention it," Clarence began in an almost playful tone, "Monsieur Vournier has a new governess to help with his children, you know, since his wife passed away last year."

"That's your big news?" Éric questioned. Usually the kind of news Clarence had was about his latest mistress.

"Here's the catch: she's beautiful. Shame she's stuck in the home - a pretty thing like that should be out dancing," Clarence finished knowingly.

Éric sighed inwardly, "I see."Admittedly it did make more sense now, Clarence was always chasing tail.

"Anyways, I overheard Monsieur Vournier mentioning that she would drop by with Penelope and Marcelle today, so you can see for yourself."

"Right," Éric replied absently, having already spotted a clerical error in the document he was holding. "I'm going to get this fixed," he held up the sheet, "I'll be back."

By the time he had returned he'd already forgotten about the new governess.

_-.-.-_

Élise repositioned and tightened the bonnet on Penelope's head of obscenely curly brown hair. "There, now you're just like a princess!" Penelope nodded enthusiastically, dimpled cheeks flushed slightly. "So be sure to act like one, alright?" The girl nodded before burying her face in her brother's side, embarrassed. From where Marcelle sat with his face practically pressed against the glassy window, Élise wondered how he could breathe properly. "And Marcelle will be just like a proper gentleman," she finished smartly as the automobile pulled up.

The bank was a large, intimidating place from the outside, but inside - Élise was glad to see - was much more welcoming. There was warm lighting and lush mahogany desks. A few pieces of furniture did wonders to make the otherwise empty space less daunting. Penelope slipped a timid hand around Élise's littlest finger, a genuinely adorable gesture. A shy, loving creature, Penelope was like the sister Élise had never known.

Marcelle, who quite obviously knew the way better than she did, subtly guided them towards the back offices, holding the door for her and Penelope. He was already a fine man in the making, Élise noted, it was a wonder why Monsieur Vournier thought his children (mainly Penelope, since Marcelle was old enough to go without) needed a governess at all, but she was not going to complain - not when it was literally the only offer of employment she had. Governesses were not generally as well-sought of an occupation as they had used to be.

"You two can wait here," Marcelle gestured to a set of chairs that sat in the hall, "I shall go fetch papa."

"Oh -" Élise started, "- perhaps I should?" Marcelle simply waved her off, so she gestured Penelope into a seat to wait. Perhaps it was best - after all, she didn't know her way around very well.

After a few minutes passed before a bank teller hurried by, clutching what looked like an ink-stained finger in what could only be described as a panic, followed by another, more exasperated man, who nearly walked past her before his gaze flickered and she fell into his peripheral vision. He did a visible double-take and came to a full halt in front of her. The man in front of him continued along alone.

"Excuse me, _Madamoiselle_? Can I help you?" he queried in a polite tone.

"Ah, _non_. I am Monsieur Vournier's new governess," she replied awkwardly, standing up to curtsied. "You can call me Élise."

"_Mademoiselle_," he bowed slightly, his expression shifting slightly. "Pleased to meet you. I am -"

"Éric!" Marcelle had returned, his father in tow. "I see you've met Mademoiselle Tunsie."

Éric's look was now mixed with wry amusement at the younger man's naiveté. "Yes, well. I best be on my way. No doubt Jacques has gone into fits over his finger having an infection."

"Infection?" Monsieur Vournier interjected with a note of concerned authority. The large man had a friendly, wise appearance that never failed to put Élise's chattering nerves at ease.

"It's nothing, you know how paranoid he gets," Éric answered truthfully, "I best go reassure him. If you'll excuse me. Monsieur, Mademoiselles, Marcelle," he nodded at each of them before departing.

-.-.-

Clarence stopped them just as they was on the way out the door. "Marcelle! Are you free for drinks later? There's a group planning on coffee at Jean's new café workplace after the shift," his gaze fell upon Élise, who was standing off to the side with Penelope. "Feel free to bring your knock-out babysitter," Clarence winked.

Élise fought the urge to roll her eyes at the blatantly obvious come-on. Marcelle, however, brightened incessantly. "Yeah! Sure! If that's alright with you -" he turned large puppyish eyes on her, and again, she fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"If Penelope doesn't mind," she decided.

Marcelle whirled to face his younger sister. "I'll buy you some sweets," he promised fervently. "Or some hair ribbons, or a new dress for you doll." Penelope looked momentarily considering, and Élise rolled her eyes this time at her charge's antics.

"Why don't we save some time and just agree on a time and place?" she told Clarence, who immediately threw a friendly arm around Marcelle's shoulders.

"I told you, after the work shift. The bakery is on _rue Marx-Dormoy_, and it's not too hard to spot - it's the only _boulangerie_ covered entirely in flowers."

Penelope's eyes widened as she tugged lightly at Élise's skirts. "Can I come too? I want to see the flowers."

-.-.-

The café - true to Jean's personality - was decorated with pots of hanging flowers, flower boxes and a flowery, hand-painted sign. Charlotte was only too pleased to be wheeled up to the colorful café, even more so when she saw all the people waiting inside for her. Éric was glad he'd brought her, her whole face seemed to light up at the sight of a new place; a place other than the gardens or their home. The group of people was crowded around two small, pale tables which had been hastily shoved together and covered with a tablecloth.

Marcelle, who'd been talking with Clarence in a rather animated fashion, turned slightly as Clarence greeted them. When he saw Charlotte his reaction was rather instantaneous. He stood quickly, knocking his chair backwards, his face flushed as he inclined his head towards them. Éric waited for Charlotte to gesture to the empty space before pushing her towards it.

"Éric, _mademoiselle,_" Marcelle murmured.

His sister's experience with boy her age had been rather limited until this point, and for a moment Eric worried about what meeting Marcelle would do - but dismissed it a moment later as Charlotte simply replied with a demure, "_Monsieur_."

Awkwardly, Marcelle slid his chair over to make room for the two editions. "Ah, my name is Marcelle Vournier, and this is Clarence, you know him -" Marcelle began hasty introductions, "and this is Mademoiselle Élise -" he continued around the table, but Éric had lost interest, since he was already acquainted with all at the table except for one. Élise waved half a hand at him from where she sat cornered between Clarence and René. Eric waved back, and this did not fail to pass the beneath the notice of Clarence, who gave René a little shove.

"Let Éric sit next to her," Clarence said, as René good-naturedly shifted over a seat, grinning at Éric all the while. Wondering what had brought on this sudden change of heart (he'd thought Clarence was intent on flirting with Élise), Éric hesitantly took the proffered spot.

Everyone now settled, conversations erupted once more, except Marcelle had now engaged Charlotte into talking more about herself, with Clarence listening intently and interjecting information on Marcelle every few minutes; Jean was trying to explain his methods of cooking to Jacques, who was watching his food with a wary eye; and René, who was silent and once again at the bottle.

"Sorry if you didn't want to come," he told Élise apologetically, "I know Clarence can be very insistent."

"Oh, _non_, I don't mind," she said, then pursued her lips thoughtfully. "You're all a very interesting bunch, and I don't yet know many people around here."

"Well, I'm pleased you're here if you are, then," he tells her.

"Mmm," she responded non-committally, smiling slightly. Élise watched Charlotte and Marcelle for a while, and Éric watched her as her brow furrowed the tiniest bit, her lips pursed. "Your sister seems familiar," she glanced back at him, "as do you. Are you sure we haven't met?"

Éric cleared his throat a bit, "I'm sure I'd remember someone like you," he offered lamely. "I mean - you're very lovely, I wouldn't forget meeting you before."

"Thank you," Élise smiled quickly, then she shifted her gaze back to Charlotte. "It's very peculiar, though."

Half-hoping she would turn back to face him and study him in a similar manner, Éric gave up and struck up a conversation with René instead.

-.-.-

Charlotte's beaming, rounded face stirred something in her mind, Élise was sure of it. She closed her eyes for a split second as a memory seemed to surface.

/x\

_She stands on a small, beaten path outside the little village, where a few scraggly pillars of smoke stretch towards the sky. The blonde cherub is a few paces ahead of her, in a plain woolen dress_  
_that sweeps her ankles._

_"Allons-y! Catch me if you can, ma sœur!" Wide eyes sparkle brightly at her, but then they are gone as the girl sprints away down the path._

_"Wait!" She runs after the head of sunshine, her bare feet light on the dirt as she begins her chase._

_The market square is not too crowded - she is able to keep sight of her sister's long blonde hair - but still she has to weave in and out of the vendors and avoid the other running children._

_Mere will be mad, she thinks to herself, if they both get dirty and come home late for lunch. She is so caught up in her thoughts and her worries that she does not notice the carpenter's apprentice enter her path._

_And so she barrels straight into his chest, which is firm and warm, and his arms go out to brace her. Thankfully, he had not been carrying anything, but she is embarrassed all the same. Looking up shyly, she studies his face._

_His hair is blonde too and his face, arms and neck are tan. However, it's his eyes that draw her attention, because they remind her of the ocean, and of the time when her family had stopped in a port town by the sea._

_"Sorry," he says, startled. "Are you alright?"_

_It takes her a while to hear him. "Oh, oui. Très bien, merci. Thank you for catching me." She realizes what a lost little girl she must seem like, so she takes a step back and gestures in the way her sister had gone. "Je cherche pour ma sœur, and then I have something to buy," she says as importantly as she can._

_"Well, I don't want to keep you," he takes a step back as well, gestures in the direction she had headed in. "I hope I'll see you again. Maybe you could stop by the carpenter's next time, and I'll see you there."_

_Her breath seems to be caught in her throat, so she settles for nodding in a quick. jerky motion, and he leaves._

_She does want to see him again, but she never gets the chance. Her family is always on the move, from town to town across France, as her father is a travelling merchant. Still, she carries the memory of the summer-haired boy with the ocean blue eyes with her._

\x/

"Oh," she said abruptly, standing up, and Éric stood with her on instinct. "Oh!" Her eyes were gazing at something in the distance, and suddenly she seemed to be a woman possessed.

"Sorry," he apologized, placing a hand on her shoulder, unsure of what to do. "Are you alright?"

The frightened look on her face faltered and faded, and the she jerked her shoulder away. "I - I need some air. I'll be back." Élise stood, and everyone hastily shifted their seats so she could leave. Éric, still standing, went to follow her.

Unshed tears have welled unwillingly in her eyes, her hand clamped over her mouth, her breathing ragged and uneven. Éric cleared his throat, as to not startle her. Élise blinked the water away and looked him, her stare determined to show no fear. She opened her mouth to speak, she seemed to choose her words carefully.

"Have you ever felt like you were born as someone else in a previous life?"

"I- no, not really." For the first time, he was afraid. Afraid what would happen if he said yes; afraid of losing the semblance of sanity. He'd never had any episodes like Élise, but somehow he heard truth in her words. "But tell me about, about what you saw," he prompted her.

"You were there. Charlotte was there, only Charlotte was my sister ... and the time was all wrong - we were in medieval times, I don't know for sure when, and -" she broke off, her shoulders shaking of their own accord. "You must think I'm mad."

"No, no I don't think you are. Whatever happened, you're not mad." This was something Éric was sure off. "What - what was I like?" He was curious, he couldn't help himself.

Élise's expression became gentler. "You looked very nearly the same - your skin was darker, tanner - and you were a carpenter's apprentice. I - I ran into you and you caught me." She blushed, as if he had caught her in the act of thinking something she shouldn't have.

"It's never happened to me before," he finally said, watching her knot her fingers together. "Although I'm not opposed to trying."

She tilted her head back up, and he focused on her smile, her face, tracing invisible patterns on her skin with his eyes. They were both still as he tried to place her features. Lips, cheeks, brow, neck ... he felt his own cheeks grow warm.

After a minute of this, she turned away.

"Maybe next time," he joked softly, oddly disappointed.

"Maybe," she allowed. Élise craned her neck over her shoulder to peer back inside the café. "We should go back," she stated bluntly.

They do, and he held the door as she breezed back in, light on her feet, a quiet 'thank you' uttered over the doorstep.

* * *

**To be continued ...**


	8. The Algerian War cont' - 1958 to 1961

Tarnished  
by always-a-time  
[_Enjolras X Éponine_]

AN: We continue off where I left you last, hanging from a cliff ... (?) **Anyways, check my Author Note/Profile for a chance to become an OC in the next cycle** (which is modern day, hoorah!). This is the second half of the previous reincarnation, to make things clear. C: Thanks to **frustratedstudent** for inspiring the final plot point here and an equally huge thanks to all favouriters/followers/reviewers!

The symbols /x\ and \x/ denote flashbacks.

* * *

_"Maybe next time," he joked softly, oddly disappointed.  
__"Maybe," she allowed. Élise craned her neck over her shoulder to peer back inside the café. "We should go back," she stated bluntly.  
__They do, and he held the door as she breezed back in, light on her feet, a quiet 'thank you' uttered over the doorstep._

-.-.-

**-Late April, 1958-**

_I'll obey, I will try ..._

René was the second to be drafted.

First had been Francis, who had - after receiving the notice - promptly dumped his lodgings, gathered his meager belongings and bid them all farewell. He hadn't told them where he had gone - it would have been a terrible idea, most likely - but after a while a letter had arrived in his careful handwriting, unsigned and wishing them all well. Before all of this had come to pass, Éric had asked Francis why he preferred to flee rather than join the French Army.

"I don't believe in what they're fighting for. It's as simple as that," Francis said gruffly, tugging his worn cap onto his burnt, straw-coloured hair. "They deserve to be free if they want, who am I to deny them, or to shoot them down? Think, Éric, if it was you, what would you do in their stead?"

Éric had made a non-committal sound at this, but he knew his friend had been right.

And so, when René had informed him of the news, Éric had offered up his help in aiding his friend out of the country.

"We could write to Francis, find a way to contact him," Éric had muttered, pacing his living room. "I'm sure you'd both be able to stay safe together. You should pack your things, perhaps, and leave today - we can write you when we've heard back from him -"

"Éric." René had spoken softly. So softly, in fact, that Éric paused mid-step, startled at the complete lack of urgency in the tone. "I'm joining the army."

"What? _Non_, don't be ridiculous -"

René heaved a sigh. "It just feels ... it's just something I feel I have to do. I don't want to run, Éric. I don't want that. I'll go - I'll go ... and maybe, hopefully, I'll come back."

"I don't understand." _I don't understand why you're leaving this way._

"I would never have expected you to. We're two different people, you and I. Just know that I'm making this choice myself, and it will be enough."

Éric stared at René for the longest time, words caught in his throat. René was leaving. René was going to join the army. The sense of abandonment leftover from his parents' deaths pulled at his heartstrings, for no matter how much he complained of René's drinking and his crude ways, Éric felt as if they were brothers. _Perhaps in another life,_ he thought quietly.

"You'll come back." Éric said aloud after an unspeakable amount of time passed, pulling René into an awkward embrace. René's arm reached up and he clumsily patted Éric's shoulder with a heavy hand. "You'll come back, you'll see. You're too stubborn to die," he muttered fiercely.

"Yes," René whispered back, "that I am. I will try, Éric. For you."

-.-.-

_My friends, my friends, forgive me ..._

The café was quiet that day.

Élise was certain it was because René's absence meant there was generally less uproar and that they were simply to upset to talk. Éric was morose, stirring his untouched coffee with one of Jean's silver spoons. As the last customer filed out, no one said anything about how it was past closing time, Jean simply untied his apron and went to join them, pulling up another chair even though there already was one.

The serving girl even hesitated at the doorstep, watching them for a second over her shoulder, but turned to go, leaving the silent group to their empty chair .

Élise wondered if she had known her in another life, but shook the thought clear for her head in a panic. As intriguing as it might have been, she would not allow herself to break down again. She'd carefully avoided making eye contact with Éric of the course of the last two weeks or so. Whether he'd noticed was obvious, but whether he'd cared was another.

As if sensing he was in her thoughts, Éric sat up rather abruptly. He had always sat with perfect posture - and today was no different, she supposed - but there was a distinct lack of - of something. He ran a hand through his oddly unkempt hair, which put Élise ill at ease. A moment passed, and she watched as his brow creased and his jaw set into a hard-line. He stood and wordlessly pushed his way out of the café to stand in front of the window.

She sat there, unsure of what to do. All she had ever known of comforting was patching up little skinned knees and chasing away the closet-monsters that sometimes lurked in Penelope's bedroom. How to handle the loss of a close friend, she did not know. Élise had never really had close friends.

Éric stood facing the sunset, and as his silhouette hit the glass she could see, very clearly, the summer-haired boy from her vision. His hands pushed into his pockets, his head shifted slightly, tilting back towards the inside of the room. She saw the flash of blue in his eyes that clearly asked: _aren't you coming_?

Élise pushed her chair back and counted the number of steps it took her to reach the door.

_Un, deux, trois_ ...

/x\

_The letter for Alouette is clutched between her dirty, white-knuckled fingers as she reaches the house. _55 Rue Plumet_, she thinks to herself bitterly. Where she might have been it fate had not chosen another path for her. Three short steps will take her to the door. Three short steps and Marius will most definitely be lost to her forever. _How easy would it be, _she thinks,_ to throw the letter in the gutter for the thieves to find? How they would laugh at something as foolish as love.

_But Alouette deserves better. For no matter how much she hates her, Alouette does deserve Marius' love. Cosette, who was always a kind a gentle soul, who gave francs and bread to the poor and had shed her dark childhood in exchange for a loving father and a cheery smile._

_She hesitates. She takes a step._

_Even if she believes herself more deserving, it does not matter. Marius will never be hers. She is Little 'Ponine, gutter trash to society, mere sous to her parents, a distant sister to her siblings, and only a friend of the boy she loves the most._

_She blinks back tears, but steps forward again._

He never saw me there,_ she thinks to herself. _Even if he did not love Cosette, he would never love me. He was not mine to lose, he never will be. Let it go, 'Ponine.

_She closes the distance and places a gentle hand on the door - about to knock - when the door swings open of its own accord._

_"I have a letter, _Monsieur**.**_ It's for your daughter, Cosette ..."_

\x/

Éric's eyes were knowing as she joined him in front of the building. "Again?"

Élise nodded silently, not trusting her voice to be steady.

He looked not quite pleased as he turned back to gaze at the street. "I saw you hesitate on the step. I thought that's what it was." She was not surprised at his attentiveness to his surroundings, but she was shaken at how well he was able to read her actions. His gaze was always watchful and perhaps a bit stone-like, but Élise liked to think herself the kind of girl who was not so easily puzzled out by others, especially the opposite gender.

"And you, _monsieur_? Have you decided to descend into this madness?" She was perplexed at how calm and distant he was.

Éric's shoulders shook, the tiniest motion that cracked his unaffected façade. "I have."

Élise placed a hand on his arm and tugged lightly on the sleeve and her eyes were intent as she spoke. "Tell me, then. Tell me about your past life."

He did not jerk his arm away, but his eyes did close wearily, and Élise sensed that the story had something to do with René before he even opened his mouth to speak.

/x\

_The carpenter is tall and well-built, standing in front of the shop as he whittles and chips a little figurine - a small horse. Still, it doesn't quite look like a horse, but rather something more magnificent than any normal horse. The arch of the neck is powerful and graceful, the legs suggesting movement in something that was essentially stone._

_"What did the bookshop owner say?"_

_"One shelf," he confirms confidently, "with the same measurements as the other one, but two times wider."_

_"Good," is the brisk reply as the man stands and retreats inside, gesturing for his apprentice to follow. When both are seated, he is holding a small, intricately carved chest and a bottle of wine._

_The older man's prowess is apparent in the beautiful work of art, and he was always been impressed at how easy it seemed for the craftsman to draw such shapes out of plain wood._

_"What's this for?" He knows the carpenter drinks more than is naturally healthy, and does his best to dissuade the idea._

_A jovial smile crosses the bearded face, "This is for you," he holds out the box and the wine. A swell of gratitude builds in his heart at the man who took him in when no one else would, who believed in him and his potential when no one else seemed to._

_He accepts the gift carefully, hesitant to take such an expensive gift. Surely this chest would have gone for a lump sum. He runs his fingers over the painstakingly carved figures. "Thank you," he says, jerking his gaze up to meet the pair of dark eyes._

_Two glasses of wine are poured, and the pair sit at the little wooden table that, five years ago, he had made as his first independent project. How long ago that seems, now._

_"Apprenticeship's almost up," he says quietly, now staring morosely at his drink. He doesn't want to leave this behind, this little life he's built for himself._

_"That it is," his companion agrees, settling his drink back down to watch his young apprentice. "You've come a long way." The gaze is warm, and he can see the slightest touch of wetness in the man's eyes. And it is enough to give him the courage to fly._

\x/

_-.-.-_

_War, man. Battle._

When Charlotte's birthday had come around, she had asked Éric if she could invite Marcelle, Élise, Penelope and M. Vournier over for a celebratory supper. After a bit of deliberation he had agreed, because it was definitely safer for her to stay at home than it was to go out. Raids had begun to take a violent nature as groups turned from robbery to assassination. Even now Éric found himself incredibly cautious in their own neighbourhood, which was fairly far from the endangered district.

There was a flurry of activity as Charlotte fussed about preparations for the special occasion. Charlotte wore her best dress that day, and insisted her brother also 'clean up' in a similar manner, despite his protests that he was dressed just fine. Whether or not she was hinting he do this on Élise's behalf he was unsure, but his sister did seem fond of dropping the name every once in a while, in rather increasingly unsubtle ways. ("What do the two of you talk about in front of the café, Éric?" or "When are you going to ask her out, Éric?" and, most recently, "Why don't you just admit you like her already, Éric?")

While there had been no odd visions since the day of René's departure, he and Élise still frequented outside the café for a few moments, each of them making some excuse or another. He found himself regretting it at times, not because he didn't like her company, but because news from Algeria only served to fuel his worries. More and more often, he dreamed of war; of battles fought and lost; of blood and death. What was frightening about these nightmares was that they all seemed so real. If these were truly past lives (and, unfortunately, Éric was realizing they must have been) - so many of them met with hardship and loss - what chance did he stand in this lifetime?

The draft was coming for him surely as death, he could almost feel it in his bones.

The birthday meal itself was brief, with polite conversation about their day-to-day lives, with M. Vournier showing particular admiration for Charlotte's strength and perseverance to live as normal of a life as possible. Penelope, however, had taken an immediate liking to Éric, and had wheedled her way into sitting next to him, much to Élise's amusement. She seemed to especially enjoy watching him flounder with the young girl's endless questions.

"So I was thinking," Marcelle began as Therese, their maid, cleared the dishes. "You both could join our family for supper next week." Evidently he had discussed this in advance with his father, who nodded firmly in agreement.

"If you're not busy," the older man added as an afterthought.

"We're not busy," Charlotte answered eagerly, beaming at her beau before looking at her brother. "Right, Éric?"

Éric, realizing he really had little to no say in the matter, he nodded.

"Great!" Penelope smiled brightly at him, "We can play dolls, and you can meet Marie ..."

"Right," Éric said awkwardly.

From beside him, Élise snorted and mouthed something like 'pushover' at him before she cleared her throat and spoke in an undertone, "Marie is her doll."

"She's very pretty," Penelope added solemnly.

"I had lots of dolls when I was younger," Charlotte interjected, "I still have some of them. Maybe I could show you later?"

Glancing around the table to make sure Marcelle, Charlotte, and M. Vournier were not watching, Éric stuck his tongue out at Élise. Surprisingly, she grinned back, poking her own tongue back through pursued lips. He mock-scowled back at her, but it was half-hearted. Élise balled up her napkin and threw it at him, but it missed, landing on the floor behind him, where a exasperate Therese retrieved it.

Satisfied, he stood. "Shall we move to the living room?"

"Oh, yes, please," Charlotte replied placing her napkin on the table, and Marcelle hurried behind her and gripped the handles of her wheelchair. His sister seemed pleased and amused at his eagerness to help, thanking him as he pushed her towards the front room.

Penelope hopped off her chair and went to follow, chattering animatedly to her father about Marie's latest adventures.

Élise rose, tucking in her chair as Éric waited for her. Her dress, he noted, was a soft blue with a creamy sash tied around the middle.

"How are things lately?" she asked in a wry tone as she went to stand next to him. "No odd memories lately?"

"No," he admitted, maneuvering around Penelope's chair to push it in. "Not lately." The two walked through the doorway and into the tiny hallway.

Élise appeared assured. "That's ... all good and well, I suppose. I mean - sometimes I think 'yes, why shouldn't I try?', but then I stop, because these aren't all - aren't -"

"Happy memories?" he supplied.

"Something like that," she muttered, as they joined the rest of their company.

-.-.-

**-Early May, 1961-**

_Good god, have you no fear?_

They were at the café when the shooting started.

Swearing heavily, Jean gestured them all towards the back room, rushing forwards to push chairs and tables out of their path. "It'll be safer back there -"

He was cut off by the explosion, which is so loud Éric knew it could only be about a block away. The hanging flower baskets outside quaked with fear, and the shelves wobbled dangerously. Charlotte was wide-eyed as Éric slipped his arms around the chair and lifted it with Jean into the backroom. Élise followed, dragging a clumsy Marcelle by the shirt-collar. It was only the five of them today, and Éric is thankful young Penelope hadn't joined them.

People were scattered about on the streets, and he wanted to yell at them to get back, to hide, but he wasn't even sure if that was a good idea.

Once Charlotte and Élise were settled in the room, he bolted back out to shut the door, pushing up a few tables against the glass windows. Jean helped, and the two of them together manage to block the door fairly well before gunshots erupt, even closer than the bomb.

"Éric!" The voice belonged to Élise, and he heard Charlotte's wordless exclamation mixed in with it.

Jean spotted the armed men first, and shoved Éric towards the back. "Go! _Allons-y!_"

-.-.-

_Get out before the trouble starts ..._

There was a terrifying scream as the figure was caught in the crossfire.

He told himself that he hated the fact that the first victim was a woman, an innocent civilian, but really it was because she could have so easily been someone else, and he couldn't bear to think of that for longer than he thought of the next death, or the next, because then he would lose his mind.

There are only two main 'she's in his life, currently, and if it is his life he has to sacrifice to protect them, then he will gladly give it.

Élise was holding his left arm; Charlotte clutching his right; Marcelle on Charlotte's right gripping her free arm in a boyishly protective gesture, his hands tight on his coat, which was draped around her shoulders. Marcelle looked more determined to shield Charlotte than afraid. Éric fervently hoped that he wouldn't do anything rash. Jean's entire face was flushed - whether from the biting cold or silent anger, Éric was uncertain.

Angry shouts echoed off the glass panels, and Éric strained his neck to watch the commotion from his limited viewpoint as one man held up an object of some sort. The shots slowed and the air developed a eerie silence once more.

"You'll blow up half the street!" shouted an officer. "Including yourself and your friends!"

"Including myself!" bellowed the dark-haired man in return, his voice muffled slightly by the scarf that was tucked around his neck and mouth. "Now call your men off, or I swear I will do it!"

The flics retreated at the signal from their commanding officer. Visibly relieved, the leader grasped the other man, whose arm slowly lowered. The battle was not over, by any means, the OS meant serious business in their raids, Éric knew. Somehow he felt a strange stirring at the sight of the comradeship between the attackers. The familiar feeling of pins and needles had settled into his feet, and tension shone in sweat on his forehead.

"I'm sure it will be resolved soon," Marcelle said shakily. "As long as we stay hidden - as long as we stay in the café -" he was cut off by Élise's shuddering exhale of breath. Éric watched the puff that passed through her lips dissipate into the stale, ashy room.

His hand grabbed hers in a tight, half-certain grip; frantic yet meant to be reassuring. She did not look at him - so he simply watched her, her eyes screwed shut and lips pursed in a thin line once more.

"Jean," Éric spoke in a low tone, still all too wary of the terrorists outside, "Where is your gun?" His own pistols still resided in his jacket pocket - the jacket which lay abandoned on the other side of the counter across the room. He couldn't retrieve it without drawing attention - he cursed the table they had been at was now so exposed - which was something he wasn't going to do. He needed a distraction to retrieve it (really he should have thought to retrieve it already, but it couldn't be helped now) so he could protect the others -

"One," Jean murmured back, "A small pistol in the register. But Éric -"

But Éric had already held out his hand for the register key.

-.-.-

_Get out 'Ponine, you might get shot ..._

A kind of fierceness rose up in her chest, clawing and tearing as each protestation fought to surface before one single word spilled out - "No."

Éric was now clutching the gun, smiling benevolently at her. "Don't you fret, Élise."

"Don't," Élise hated how incapable she was of forming complete sentences. "Éric, you might get shot. Just - just let the police handle the situation."

His gaze was hard and determined - solid as marble. She knew he would not budge on the matter any further.

"Let me go with you." Her and Marcelle both spoke at once, their voices mingled into one.

The side of Éric's mouth betrayed the hint of a small smile.

"I'll go." Jean sounded fiercer that she could remember hearing him, the soft-spoken man who served them delicately iced pastries and tended to baskets of tulips in his spare time. "I'll get the pistol from your coat, Éric."

Éric's expression softened again at their insistence. "Very well," he conceded. "But you're not coming, Marcelle. You're too young."

Charlotte tugged on Marcelle's pant leg as the latter opened his mouth to protest. "Stay here," she whispered, "You can keep Élise and I safe." Élise had to admire the girl's words, then, because Marcelle did settle, albeit slightly disgruntled.

"We'll wait until they're distracted and then take out the leader. The rest will scatter, I'm sure. They've not failed a raid yet, but today they will." The line of Éric's jaw was set, partly in anger and partly in determination. Élise did not blink, because if she did she would miss the sharp profile he cast against the cream-coloured wall.

-.-.-

_Shelter me, comfort me ..._

In the end, he was right. In the end, they were shot, both he and the leader.

"Éric," she whispered, stroking a lock of blonde hair from his sweat-covered forehead. Élise's hands were soft as feathers and silk on his skin. His own hands were occupied with the wound in his chest, which leaked blood into his clothes even as he tried to apply pressure. "You foolish, foolish boy. Always trying to save the world with your grand visions and beautiful words." Her hand moved to push his aside, placing her clean, white hand atop of the red wound on his black vest. The contrast of the colors made his head spin.

His eyes widened slightly in surprised, bloodied lips parted ever so slightly. "Élise ..."

"D'you remember? How much you were willing to risk for France? For justice? For the people? How you always gave and gave and -" Her voice choked a bit as his eyelids fluttered and closed. "H-hey," she gently touched his cheek, "you're not allowed to die on me."

"I - I ..." his voice was strained. "I don't think -" Éric struggled to sit up, but she held him fast, and with an unknown strength pulled his upper body to rest on her lap. His eyes closed.

"I remember ..." he managed, gaze flickering over her face. When he met her eyes, he could almost imagine them laughing. "I remember ..."

"Stop, please, save your strength," she pleaded with him, her free hand resting against the side of his cheek. "This isn't the time for that, you'll only hurt yourself -" Élise jerked her head momentarily as Jean approached, like ghost in his movements, gaunt and pale.

("They've gone for help, Élise, but I think that there's not much we can do until then," he told her, before jerking his gaze away, as if the sight of the two of them was too much to bear.)

"It is," Éric insisted, "because this isn't the first time I've died. I feel no pain, not when I know what I gave my life for. Who I gave my life for." He watched her face carefully, enunciating each word. "I give my life for you, Élise. For you and Charlotte and -" He was suddenly breathless, and he inhaled deeply, throat burning, which only led to him coughing up blood. "Marcelle. And Jean. Francis. René." He struggled with each sound, and for the first time in his life (this life, he thought, just in this life) he was inarticulate.

"You're not going to die, I won't let you!" Élise's grip shifted minutely, then relaxed. "You can't. You have to live, you have so much to live for ..." Her voice dropped to a whisper, quiet and terrified. _You have to live for me._ "You can't go."

His bloodied hand covered hers, "I will try," he murmured. Éric opened his eyes again - with much effort - and smiled. "Do you remember, Émilie? How you died. And how you were always Marius' shadow, how you left your white gloves behind in the street, and how after that day in the market we never saw each other again -" His voice fell and they were both silent for a period.

"_Non, non_, we will see each other again," she promised as soon as she was able to speak again, and he watched as tender tears sprung to her eyes. He longed to wipe them away, but he found he could not, as his arms were heavy and made of stone. "In another life, I swear to you, Éric. I won't forget. I'll never forget you."

"I'll hold you to that," he told her wistfully. "I'll search all of France for you - the whole world, if I need to."

Élise's hands grasped both of his as she leaned in to press a chaste kiss on his lips. He could barely feel anything anymore, but he felt the warmth from her breath on his cheek as her own lips came away, lightly stained scarlet with blood. Her eyes met his, still desperate but unafraid. His face was wet with her tears, which had been unshed but now lingered on his hot skin. He wished he could stay. Éric soaked in the sight of her, burning the memory of her and her kiss into his mind before he closed his eyes for the final time.

She would be the last thing he saw, he told himself.

-.-.-

_Tell her that I love her ..._

When they finally reached Charlotte's home, Therese greeted them at the door, face ashen. "Where is _Monsieur_?" she asked, so distracted she didn't seem to notice that the four of them were covered in dirt and - in Élise's case - blood. "Where is he? I have something to give him, it's very important -"

"You've heard the news?" Jean finally asked softly. When Therese stared blankly back, Jean hesitated before speaking again. "Éric - he's dead."

Therese clamped a hand over her mouth, a helpless whimper edging its way out. Élise tore her eyes to the ground, unable to watch.

"Well," Marcelle said quietly, "what was it you wanted to tell him?"

Wordlessly, the maid held out a thick, official envelope. In it, they all knew, would be the paper requesting Éric's mandatory enlistment in the French Army.

Charlotte - who had been gripping Marcelle's arm - let out a startled sob. Élise took the younger girl's hand in her own, her other hand reaching for Marcelle's as Jean did the same. Together they stood in solidarity, united in their grief. The silence seemed to suck all the air out of the room.

"We will see him again," Élise said distantly. "I'm quite sure of that." She did not offer any more explanation than that.

Jean exhaled lightly, "I'm sure you're right." His hand dropped from her grasp, and he stumbled past Therese into the kitchen, mumbling something about getting a drink. After a moment's hesitation and some silent communication between them both, Charlotte and Marcelle followed, Therese trailing after them.

Élise shut her eyes, and could almost see ocean blue eyes staring back.

_Yes, I will see him again, and I will hold him close and keep him safe._

___And I'll see her when I wake ..._

* * *

AN: Again, I'm sorry if anything was wrong or inaccurate in this story. I talk alot and I'm all over the place, so sorry about that, too. :/ Feel free to skip any and all of my rambling, as per usual. I feel bad about bombarding you guys with all of my talking, so I made this one shorter.

So, the Algerian War. This involved conflict between France and Algeria as Algeria wanted freedom from France, and eventually led to Algeria gaining independence from France. This story, however, takes place in France, where rebel groups were fighting against rival groups. The two main groups were the **Mouvement National Algérien** and the **Front de Libération National**. Many of these attacks were called Cafe Wars because that's where they commonly occurred, as members from these groups who frequented cafes were targeted. There were bombings and the whole affair was considered to be random acts of terrorism by most of the population. Muslims were often searched in the streets and many of the victims were innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. As attacks grew bolder and groups became more funded from the cafe raids, they began to attack the police, which was the case in this reincarnation.

I tried really hard to start wrapping up some loose ends (they're getting used to the reincarnation stuff, yup). This makes me really sad, but it had to be done. I'm finding that I tend to write more Enjolras than Eponine, because somehow I get his point-of-view more readily. I also had a hard time writing their reactions to the whole reincarnation business, I hope it wasn't OOC. (Then again, lots of fanfiction is somewhat OOC, I think.) I'm wracking my brain to see how seriously anyone could ever take this stuff. Another issue to address: I feel like this is turning into either chaptered stuff or really long one-shots. But what I want to know is: do you like them longer with more detail or is shorter sweeter?

**As for the OC contest, I cut out the section and moved it to my Author Profile. You can check it out there! C:**

I'm really looking forward to the next reincarnation cycle! I feel like it's going to be the best one (you'll see why, haha). But I'm crazy excited, and that's all you're going to get out of me. ;)

Quick self-promo to any Harry Potter fans reading this - check out my new crossover titled **Les Wizardables**! It features Sirius Black as Jean Valjean, Hermione as Cosette, and a host of other fabulous things.

If you liked this chapter, please leave a review! I try my best to respond to everyone as best I can, but if you want an in-depth reply, leave an in-depth review!


	9. Aftermath: René's Return - 1962

Tarnished: Aftermath  
by always-a-time  
[_Marius X Cosette_] + [_Grantaire_]

AN: Little bit less of a focus on Marius and Cosette here, it's more R-centric as Grantaire was a rather important part of this particular cycle. It's a bit dialogue heavy, as well.

* * *

René's Return - 1962

* * *

She was the one who had suggested they sell the house. Charlotte had been living with the Vournier family for a while now, it had made no sense to continue to keep the empty estate. Everyone treated her as if she was broken glass - they tiptoed around and talked softly, as if not to startle her. She had wanted to scream, because that was not how she had wanted to move through her grief, not in this terrible, haunting silence. The money from the sale was deposited in an account at the bank for her, and no one else said anything of it.

Élise understood, though. The two of them sat in her room and talked, sometimes about Éric, sometime other things, like the flowerbeds that Jean planted outside, or Therese's newest baking expeditions. Charlotte talked about her childhood - of what little she could remember of it - and Élise asked about how Éric was as a young boy. They both found themselves smiling often, and Élise shared some of her experiences when she was little. Quiet chatter filled the room in the evenings, and her father had to stop by once or twice to remind them to go to sleep.

There were still times when they both sat in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, one where Élise brushed and braided her hair or Charlotte embroidered handkerchiefs while Élise read.

René had been writing to them all - and they wrote back - Élise telling them to studiously avoid the topic of Éric's death. She had said that if they told him he wouldn't come back for sure - and this is something Charlotte found she whole-heartedly agreed with. If René discovered Éric's death, he would not want to return. They counted down the days and months he had been away, but eventually René had saw past their carefully crafted words. René was no fool - he struck quickly, and demanded information from the one person who he thought was sure to cave in and give it.

Marcelle wrote them about René's latest letter - he was at university, and while he did visit often they still corresponded via post or by phone - and followed it up with a call a week later, asking whether they have received it. His part of the letter is brief, only outlining the problem at hand, a copy of René's letter enclosed.

René had wanted word from Éric - in fact, he demanded to know what was going on, since he has not received word from his friend for months. There was visible panic in his shaky writing, and Marcelle didn't know what to do anymore. They couldn't lie to him - when he came back he would hate them for sure and hate himself, Marcelle wrote. Eventually the decision fell to her and Élise.

* * *

He dreamt of him that night.

He was crouching in the middle of a vast battlefield, misty and heavy with fog. At first, it was all dark, the field engulfed in shadows and blackness.

Then it was blinding - this light that approached, this golden Apollo - but then it dimmed. It dimmed and dimmed until all that was left was the man himself, plain and simple. That part bothered him, but it did not stop René from approaching. He would follow this man to the end of the world. He trusted this man with his life.

"René," the man greeted him, standing upright and approaching at an easy gait. "I'm glad to see you."

René pinched himself on the arm, the thigh, the cheek. "I must be dreaming."

Éric smiled at him, running a hand through unusually long, unkempt blonde locks. "I can assure you that you are not. Or else, I would think that I am the one who is dreaming," he said, seemingly satisfied with this explanation. "Which I know to be untrue."

"Right," René said doubtfully, "I must be dead, yes, is that it? Have they killed me and I've not bothered to remember? Or, perhaps I am drunk, and you are simple a hallucination." He dragged his gaze away from Éric with some difficulty to survey the land around them. It did not look very familiar, not at all like the battlefield he was used to. "Where am I?"

Éric looked pleased to answer this. "We're in Germany, on the Siegfried Line that borders France," he paused, as if deliberating some point, then said, with a note of sure finality, "The year was 1939."

"1939? I must be dreaming, then, because neither of us have ever been to Germany, let alone during 1939." René sighed. "Perhaps it is best if I wake now."

"I'm not surprised you don't remember as much," Éric smiled, and René blinked at the gesture. "You've always been drunk at one point or another, even during our escapades. Perhaps you should refrain from alcohol the next time around."

"Éric -" René began, then cut himself off abruptly. "Edwin," he finished, testing the syllables on his tongue, unsure. "Is that it? I feel ... " he paused, thinking it over. "Odd. Something isn't quite right." Then, with a hint of a smirk, "I don't suppose I could have a drink while we're here to clear my head?"

"I doubt the drink will clear your head." Edwin scoffed, "Although you are correct on the former point. I'm glad to see you do recall some things." Still, a flask was brought out, seemingly from nowhere. "I think you'll find this leaves you wanting, however."

René accepted it, taking a small drink. The taste was thick and blunt. He handed it back. "So, my dear Edwin, what brings you to this place?"

"To say goodbye," Edwin murmured, tilting the flask back for a drink himself. "For now, at least. It's never goodbye forever with us, it seems."

René wrinkled his brow, purposefully shifting his features into a look of confusion. "What do you mean, goodbye?"

"Don't think of it like that, I'm sorry. Think of it as - I'll be seeing you again, someday," Edwin replied, placing both palms on René's shoulders, the flask somehow having vanished from his grasp.

"Where - where are you going?" The question slipped out, sounding scared and hurt. 'Why are you leaving?" René's hands grip Edwin's shoulders, white and cold.

"I know the others have been hiding it from you, but it's only because they don't want to hurt you, they want you to go home -" Edwin placed his own hands on top of René's. They were warm and radiant.

"It's not home without you," René whispered softly, distraught. "You can't leave me behind - take me with you. Where you go, I will follow."

"Be strong, and live for me, then. I promise that we will see each other again, in the next life," Edwin encouraged, pulling away slightly to look René directly in the eye.

René's throat closed, and he struggled to speak. The words came out dry and hoarse. "Swear it. Swear it to me."

Edwin's eyes did not look away, did not flinch or blink. "I swear, René, I do."

"Swear on Élise's life." His voice did not sound like his own, and it was almost unbearable to see Edwin twitch in sudden discomfort.

Still, he spoke. "I swear."

This was enough. "I believe you, I've always believed in you."

Edwin relieved, optimistic smile appeared again, and it lit up the surrounding misty air. "I know."

The fog swirled, and gathered then, encompassing them both in a small circle. Edwin gazed around, alert. "Promise me you'll return to them," he insisted, taking René's hands in his own and shaking them. "You must. Tell them how much I love them, and tell - tell Élise I will see her again, that it is certain."

Bobbing his head swiftly, René squeezed his friend's hands. "I will, I'll carry your message to them - to her." It was getting harder and harder to make out Edwin's outline, to clearly see those bright blue eyes.

"Thank you," Edwin answered, "for everything." His blonde hair seemed to fade in to the mist, locks of it swirled into the blurriness. "_À bientôt, mon ami._" The fog swallowed him whole, and left René standing in the shadows once more.

* * *

Marcelle was in the study room when he heard the knock at the door, followed by Élise's excited voice. "He's back!"

Before he even knew it, he was up and out the door, taking the steps down two at a time, nearly crashing into Élise as he hit the bottom step. He stared in bewilderment at his friend, until the latter strode forwards and pulled him into a tight hug.

"René," Marcelle breathed. "I'm glad you're finally back."

The man had a gaunter look about him, his skin paler than Marcelle remembered. He carried himself in a different way, but his eyes still seemed to shine with familiar mischief and glee. Marcelle was sure war had changed him, but not so much as he was able to discern right away. Perhaps time would tell.

"That I am, and never happier to be here," René smiled, patting Marcelle on the back.

Spinning his head around to search for Charlotte, Marcelle glanced for a head of blonde hair and was instead met with a brown one. "Where is Charlotte? She'll want to be here." His neck stretched to see her face, where Élise was still standing by the staircase.

"She's with Therese at the market, remember? She'll be back soon." Élise turned to face René, "You're back early."

"It would seem most of the men were eager to return home," René admitted, putting his hat on the rack and stepping further in, "and most were only too happy to assist us."

"Anyhow, it seems a celebration is in order," Marcelle grinned widely, "which is why Charlotte is out, I'm sure."

"Élise," René spoke up suddenly, releasing Marcelle's forearms. "There's something I'd like to speak to you about. About Éric."

She looked a bit unsure, but then her expression shifted into one of - what was it - hope? Élise apparently sensed his gaze and composed herself, smiling slightly. "If Marcelle doesn't mind."

"By all means, go ahead, you can use my study if you want," Marcelle gestured back up the stairs.

"_Merci_." The two made their way up.

* * *

Dinner was a boisterous affair, and René regaled them with stories of the men he'd fought with with much good cheer and laughter. Whether he'd been scarred by the war or not, he seemed determined not to show it. Marcelle's father poured René a generous amount of wine ("I've not had much good alcohol in Algeria, even the brandy for medicinal purposes tasted awful.") and Therese outdid herself with a meal fit for royalty. Charlotte noted Élise was unusually quiet, however, her gaze often distant in the way it had been when she watched Éric.

Later, when the night was over and everyone had bid them _bonne nuit_, the two of them had toddled sleepily to their shared room. Once settled - they were both lying in bed - Charlotte remembered to ask her.

"Marcelle said you and René had had a conversation. About Éric. I don't mean to pry, but if you wanted to tell me, if you could -" Her voice seemed to rise and rise to the point where it was a high whisper rather than normal speaking volume. Charlotte inhaled slightly and her hands moved to fiddle with her hair.

"It's fine," Élise interjected with a note of calmness. She rose, turning to face the closed window, biting down on her lower lip. "I - I need a moment."

"Alright," Charlotte agreed easily, tugging the covers up around her legs. "I don't mind."

Élise remained silent for another ten minutes or so. Charlotte shut her eyes, shifting on her pillow as best she could, and tried to imagine what the soft blankets would feel like if she could wiggle her toes. Automatically, it seemed, Élise walked back over and fluffed Charlotte's pillow.

"It started that day in the café," Élise began, her cheeks going rosy and pink at the memory, "I was watching Éric and all of a sudden my mind - my memory - was somewhere else. I was standing next to you on beautifully sunny country path, and you laughed as you ran, calling for me to chase you ..."

* * *

AN: I put the pedal to the medal (Is that the proper phrase? I have no idea, really.) and churned out this chapter at what I think to be top speed. (Hey, I queued my tumblr blog for this, you know it's serious, my friends. AND THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN UP YESTERDAY but FF was being annoying and not loading for me and then my parents kicked me off so ... )

And none have you have entered my contest, with the exception of **When The Beating Of Your Heart **(who gets major kudos for being first). I'm extending the deadline until the end of April, which gives y'all a week.

I'm glad to put history in the past (haha), and I'm happy to FINALLY be writing in present tense (I do that alot with these past-life chapters and I have to go back and change them so it makes sense, sigh. So incorrect tenses in this chapter are a result of my poor betaing skills?) with Eponine and Enjolras! Please read and review, because it makes my day and definitely puts me in a writing mood. C: (I'm also considering re-writing the first two chapters, or at least lengthening them since they're so short. Does that sound like something you would all like?)

Also (last thing, I swear), I've finally got around to making some not-very-good cover art, so hooray for that too!

Please follow + favourite + REVIEW!


	10. Modern Day - 1989 to 2008

Truth  
by always-a-time  
[_Enjolras X Éponine_]

I'm about to cry but here it is. I love the both of them so much, and I hope you love them as much as I do. As we go through the years, I hope you enjoy watching them grow up as much as I did writing them. (There's a terrible plot twist in this one, and I'm sorry for that, but I want to see how many of you can figure it out beforehand!) And there's romance adgkladhgla! This is the big one - the one we've all been waiting for. It is with great pleasure that I give you the** first half** of the modern day cycle.

This chapter is dedicated to my close friends and all the games of make-believe we played when we were young.

* * *

Modern Day - 1989 to 2008

* * *

_The truth of the matter was that this time they had a chance at love - and that was something worth fighting for._

-.-.-

She is Eleanor. He is Elliot.

They are best friends, and will probably be best friends for the rest of their lives. They know each other at a deeper level than anyone else really knows or understands.

He is her inspiration, for when she draws and paints, it is always with him and his speech in mind.

He is the storyteller, and this is where the inspiration is drawn from, since when he speaks everyone stops to listen.

She is his muse, because without her that are no tales to tell, since she is the essential component to all of them.

She is the artist, she who brings his words to life in a way that simply saying them could never match.

Together, they struggle to accomplish what they have tried to over the course of many, many lifetimes. They strive to find the truth, and they strive to find love.

-.-.-

_école maternelle (nursery school)_

**-1989-**

They meet in preschool. He walks right up to her and introduces himself, even as the other children shuffle about shyly on the carpet. She decides she likes him when they have snack-time and he shares his mother's homemade chocolate chip cookies with her. She offers some crackers, which turn out to be his favourite. After that day, they're practically inseparable.

-.-.-

**-1990-**

In kindergarten, Eleanor and Elliot play dress-up, and he's the only boy in their class who will, so she counts herself lucky. He is the one who incites games where she gets lost in the market and he has to find her. They play hide-and-seek in the playground outside, and their parents think it's adorable when the two of them run about in circles, giggling to themselves. Who are they to say no when Eleanor asks to buy a purple dress-up gown because 'that's the colour Elliot says it has to be', or when Elliot insists he needs a suit to wear because 'I'm supposed to be a grown-up like papa'.

-.-.-

_école primaire (primary school)_

**-1991-**

In grade one she asks for piano lessons because that's one of their games too, when she plays and he listens attentively. Elliot eagerly encourages her to play for him, and she's happy to do it. The tunes are simple, yet she still finds a way to mess them up, but he promises that she'll get better, even when she wants to quit, so she keeps at it. Eleanor does get better, marvelously so, until she's well ahead of her age-level.

-.-.-

**-1992-**

In grade two she takes art lessons, too, because following a parent-teacher conference, her parents are completely convinced by the teacher, who insists her talent be nurtured. Elliot tells her stories and she draws pictures for him in her spare time. Soon, both of their rooms are filled with papers and colors from play-dates and art time at school. A particularly nice painting of the two of them goes up in her room, one where they are both dressed in what could only be 1600's era clothing. It's hard to tell at first, since she's only a child, but it's there in tiny little details and her vibrant descriptions, and her parents marvel at what a child prodigy they have on their hands.

-.-.-

**-1993-**

In grade three they're still playing pretend, only now they're fighting against soldiers (he had insisted that it was his job to protect her at first, and that girls weren't meant for fighting, but she kicks him hard in the shin and he relents, saying that she has to be careful, then, because he won't be able to watch her all the time) with guns. It's a fun game, and the playground is filled with the sounds of their war-cries. Some of their classmates join in, and when they lose the battle they all lay on the grass with their hands over invisible wounds in their stomach and chests.

-.-.-

**-1994-**

In grade four they read books, and they get into heated arguments about their favourite fictional characters. Elliot tells his own stories, sometimes, when they're tired of debating, since his stories are the kind they can both agree on. She props her chin up on her elbows and immerses herself in the epic tale of a young man with dreams of freedom. In the back of her mind, she acknowledges that the blond leader is supposed to be him, surrounded and supported by their friends as they try to save France from evil kings. They start new games of make-believe, ones where they sit in a circle and draw battle plans in the dirt, Elliot's voice rising above the rest to direct them all.

-.-.-

**-1995-**

In grade five he puts words to paper, rich, vibrant characters that she knows to be them. Eleanor finds herself longing for more than just being friends with boys, however. She takes to wearing dresses and skirts, cries over skinned knees and sticks her tongue out at him when he bumps her. Elliot notes the change in his best friend, and instead begins to write of pretty gowns and brave heroines. It's not the same as what he normally writes, but he does it to please her. His teacher praise his creative abilities, and soon his own parents invest in private lessons. He excels in all his academics, and the school takes notice.

-.-.-

_collège (junior high)_

**-1996-**

In grade six they are split up, and she hates it. She pouts and throws tantrums, but her parents won't budge and neither will the teachers. Elliot is in a class for more advanced students, and there's nothing she can do about it. He promises things won't change aside from that - that they'll always be best friends. They have different lunch periods now, and she doesn't see him until after school. Lunch time is boring without him, and she sits on their bench by herself, kicking her legs. Matt comes up and tries to talk to her, and she lets him, only because he's Elliot's friend too. On a dare, Eleanor kisses him - her face is scrunched the whole time and her lower lip is accidentally cut on his braces. She doesn't notice later when Elliot berates her a bit more than usual as she shows him the little cut.

-.-.-

**-1997-**

In grade seven they are reunited, and Eleanor highly suspects Elliot made it happen. His parents seem slightly disappointed, but neither Elliot or Eleanor care about that. His parents do, however, hire more tutors for private lessons, because they won't let him leave the special class otherwise. They eat lunch together again and go to the library on weekends when they are both free. Sometimes Matt will drag them both out to the shopping center, or insist they play video games at his house.

One summer day finds them both at the park - Eleanor immersed in her book and Elliot in his writing - when something changes.

"Let's play pretend," he says suddenly, tugging on the sleeve of her loose, white blouse. She's grown out of the little-girl phase, and now tends to dress as an adult more than anything else.

"What?" she asks, irritated. Eleanor is reading _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_, and doesn't like to be bothered when she's reading by herself, just as Elliot doesn't like her interrupting his writing. Looking up, she can see he's put away his papers in favour of standing.

"Like we used to," Elliot insists, a tiny smile playing the corners of his lips. "Come on, Ellie, it'll be fun."

"We're too old for that now," she tells him pointedly, still disgruntled. They've had the unspoken rule to not interrupt each other ever since she can remember, and she doesn't know why he feels like breaking it now.

"Come on, you can even choose what we do - I don't mind. You can be a revolutionary, too."

"Can't I just finish my book?" Eleanor is annoyed now, and her brow furrow as she tries to find her place on the page again. "We can play your silly make-believe game later." She knows it's not nice - that it's the wrong thing to say even before she gazes up to see his boyish face crumple slightly. He sits back down on the bench, almost as if he's been shot. Immediately, she relents. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I - I just - " she struggles for words, but none are forthcoming.

"It's okay," he says slowly, giving her a fake half-smile. Then his gaze jerks away and he frowns at his backpack. "I know you didn't mean it. I know it's just - just a game," he struggles to get the words out. "You can go back to reading." He looks so dejected that she puts down her book and wraps him in a hug.

"I'm really sorry," she whispers quietly. "We can if you want to, I don't mind." Eleanor gently inhales, smelling his boy-scent, resting her head on his shoulder. It's not uncommon for them, their friendship is purely platonic and they treat each other like close siblings. "I was only kidding before." She doesn't mean to call the games silly.

His posture relaxes minutely. "Yeah?" Elliot asks, turning his head to face her. He looks so - so hopeful, for some reason, and she finds herself smiling, even as a tiny hint of confusion pricks the back of her mind.

"Yeah, I mean it," she promises, glad to have the temporary bump in their relationship smoothed over. Eleanor has never seen him so genuinely upset before, and although she won't say it, it scares her. Elliot is her rock, he grounds her and brings her back to reality when she spirals into one of her moods. Sometimes they're dour, and sometimes they're artsy, but he puts up with all of them better than anyone she knows.

His arm slips around her waist and he presses his forehead against her soft brown hair. "Want to go get a soda? It's my treat."

"I'd like that," she answers softly.

They sit for a moment longer, then get up and walk to the nearest corner-store hand in hand.

-.-.-

_lycée (high school)_

**-2000-**

Time flies, and soon the incident is far from her mind. Eleanor gets a part-time waitressing job at a local restaurant and quits her piano lessons to make time. "I can learn to play on my own time," she says when he asks her about it. "I'm not really learning anything new (_a lie_) and I know where all the keys are (_not quite a lie_), I'll figure it out myself (_a lie_). I'll still play for you whenever you want me to (_not a lie_)." He doesn't quite approve, she can tell, but it's her life so he lets her be.

Matt and Grant stop by for coffee one day, dragging Elliot along with them. He's engrossed in his notebook, as always, and when she brings him a croissant she catches a glimpse of the page. "Who's that?"

"Oh," he looks up, "someone I met in class yesterday."

Eleanor examines the page again, "What is this, though? It looks like you're making him a criminal profile," she jokes.

He scrunches his forehead slightly, "Yeah, I guess it does." Elliot shrugs, accepting the plate and taking a bit out of the buttery pastry. "I just wanted to copy this down before I forgot it."

"I see," she teases, "because you're never going to see him again, am I right? And you haven't made plans to go to the library and study, or whatever -" Eleanor presses a finger to a spot on the page, "- 'studious' people like you do."

"She's got you there," Grant snorts, dumping yet another packet of sugar into his coffee. "Honestly, I've no idea about you sometimes, Elliot."

"Better watch out," Eleanor says, grinning widely, "or he'll profile you next."

"Or you," Elliot retorts equally, raising an eyebrow at her as he holds up the notebook.

"Oh no, don't profile me!" Grant blinks his eyes and opens his mouth in a comical expression of fear. Then, in a more ominous tone, "Maybe you'll be next, Matt." He swoops over and flicks Matt on the forehead, cackling evilly as he does so.

Eleanor laughs, "You are all hopeless," she says fondly before heading back behind the counter to fix the next customer their order.

"Hey," Grant says, his attention drawn back to Elliot, who is wearing a mixed expression. "You have done one for her, haven't you?"

"Because goodness know you two don't know enough about each other," Matt complains, shaking his head. "You two are like - like soul mates or something."

Elliot appears to actually consider this. "Maybe," he allows.

"You can't be serious," Grant groans dramatically. "They're obviously the same person or something like that. Separated twins from birth. I can't imagine Elliot with anyone, let alone Eleanor."

Disgruntled, Elliot shuts his book. "Why's that?"

"You're too school-oriented," Matt suggests. "Social justice and everything. Girls are the last thing anyone asks you for advice about. Plus you and her are kind of really connected, like Grant said. Don't you think being in a relationship would be kind of - I don't know - weird?"

Making a non-committal sound, Elliot picks his croissant back up and deliberately takes a large bite so he won't have to answer.

"Oh, he's got it bad," Grant answers in his stead. "I'd kill to be there when she finds out."

-.-.-

___université_ (university)

_Now I remember ..._

**-2006-**

They take their _baccalauréat_, and they both apply to the same universities and get accepted, he with a literature major and her with an art one. She still sketches for him in her spare time, the summer before she works feverishly on a large canvas. He's there when she finishes, her hair is knotted and her cheeks are smudged as she emerges, a goofy pleased smile under her paint-dotted nose. He works out the colours red and black from the flecks on her worn clothing.

Elliot stands up, putting his writing aside. "Is the masterpiece finally ready for public viewing?" he jokes, but she slips back into her room wordlessly, leaving the door open behind her. Eleanor has been like this since June, and his curiosity is now sufficiently peaked. He follows her in, and the art room smells of paint even though the window is cranked wide open, the early fall breeze whipping his blonde curls around his face.

The canvas is propped on a wooden easel - one he had constructed for her as a school project in high school - and it take him a moment to fully realize what he is looking at.

The man is tall, brilliantly golden with long, sweat-tousled hair. A thin, straight nose and a cupid's bow mouth are pulled tight in a fierce expression. A proud chin leads to a strong neck and sturdy, wide shoulders and delicate collarbones. A loose cravat hangs over a partially unbuttoned white shirt, which is tucked into a wide sash bearing the colors of the French flag. The pants are high-waisted and buttoned at the waist. A pair of black boots cover the feet, stained with what appears to be blood and grime. It's exactly how he would have painted, if he could have. It is perfect.

"You've stopped breathing." Elliot is shaken out of his reverie as he turns to face her, puzzled as he huffs a deep breath, suddenly self-conscious.

"What?"

Eleanor grins, "I'm only kidding. But you do look like someone took the mickey out of you."

His gaze is drawn back to the picture. "Yeah, I bet," then, "This is really good. The best you've ever done, I think. It's perfect, Ellie." That's their affection nickname for each other now, 'Ellie'. It applies to both of them, and they're the only ones who call each other that. ("Our little secret.") Most boys wouldn't take to being called a girl's nickname, but he takes it in stride.

She beams at him and wipes the sheen of sweat off her forehead with her arm. It's an adorably normal gesture, and he wants to wrap his arms around her - sweat, paint and all - and pull her close. "I think I'll take a shower, and then we can go out for dinner to celebrate? My treat."

"Sounds fantastic," he replies.

-.-.-

_How can it be? ..._

**-2007-**

"I'm telling you," she laughs, a musical trill that rings in his ears, "he thought he was going mad! He kept looking at her and asking me if I had noticed anything strange, and Claire and I were just trying to hold our heads together and not give it away - and then - and then -" Eleanor had to stop for to breathe, since she was laughing so hard. "Claire waved right at him. I've never seen Matt go so pale and red at the same time. I can't believe he was so embarrassed when we told him what was really going on."

"That's what he gets for stalking her in class, I suppose," Elliot smirked, wryly amused. "You tell Claire where he's going to be every time you're with him and have her stalk him instead."

Eleanor rubbed her eyes. "I can't believe she went along with it, but I'm glad she did. She told me she liked him too, and I think the two of them dating is the only reason he'll still talk to me. But at least now that they are we won't have to put up with his mooning anymore," she commented, a pleased smile stretching across her face as she leaned back, stretching her arms behind her.

"Thank goodness for that," he murmured, blinking suddenly. "What does Claire look like, anyways? I've never met her."

Eleanor swung her legs onto the bench they were sitting at (their bench) and lay them across his lap, adjusting her plain summer dress as she did so. "She's pretty, and blonde like you. Kind of chubby, but in a cute way. I think she'll grow out of it. Oh - and she's got legs down to there." Eleanor splayed her fingers out and stretched her arms down her own legs in demonstration.

"Hmm, I see." Elliot pulls out his notebook, and Eleanor groans playfully.

"Again?" she asks, kicking off her shoes and rotating her ankles around. "You did this when we met Joseph, and again when we met Charlie."

Elliot regards her in a searching way before shaking his head a bit, as if clearing his ears of water. However, instead of pulling out a pencil and starting a description on a fresh, blank page, he simply flips the book open to a page and hands it to her.

On the page is a crude sketch of Claire, and a detailed description of her physical attributes and personality traits. Eleanor's hands shake, and her expression is frozen: eyes focused and jaw slightly slackened. Elliot is no artist, but the likeness is incredible: the almond-shaped eyes, the little pointed nose and round cheeks. The feathery blonde hair. Even the small birthmark on her neck is there, she realizes. "Did you already know her?" Eleanor questions, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't," Elliot says, hesitant, "well - I do. it's hard to explain." He pauses and stares at her in an odd way. "I thought you knew, Eleanor. I thought you understood." Elliot's cheeks seem paler, a stark contrast to his serious blue eyes.

"Well, explain!" she exclaims, perplexed, "This - this isn't -" Eleanor's own face goes red and she cuts herself short, dropping her eyes.

"Isn't normal?" He's still looking at her, and it's hard for her to continue to avoid his gaze.

"It's not," she whispers back, shifting closer, using his legs as leverage. Her shoulder is now pressed against his, and he can smell the shampoo she uses. Eleanor hands him the notebook. "Explain," she says firmly.

"It started in _le moyenne section*_," he begins, and she recognizes the tone as the same tone he has for storytelling. "When I first met you." Eleanor smiles despite herself. "And I knew I'd seen you before - maybe in a dream - I didn't really know understand it then, but ... " his voice trails and he appears to steady himself - then the words flow out, rich and smooth.

"- you were the girl in the purple overalls, your hair tugged into one long pigtail that brushed the small of your back. I'd spilt chocolate milk on my pants on the car ride over and wasn't really feeling up to talking to anybody, but I kept thinking about how I thought I knew you already. It's why I didn't feel embarrassed or shy when I walked over and sat down next to you. When we'd introduced ourselves, the first thing I'd said was: "Hey, both our names start with 'E'!", which in retrospect was probably the best way to impress a girl in preschool - by simply knowing the alphabet.

I started to remember things, then. And I might have dismissed them as dreams or fantasies if it hadn't been for the fact that in every single one of them we were adults, or young adults. They were so real to me, and I struggled with that, because I knew it wasn't normal, no one else had dreams every night about being another person. I understood it was wrong, I had thought it was wrong - until I met you.

All those stories, Ellie, all those games we played, they were all things I remembered. The markets, the barricades, the battlefields, all of it. Every passing moment I spent with you I recalled more, and I recalled it more vividly. And - and for the longest time, I thought you did, too. I thought you remembered. I clung to you - at first - because you were the one who made those dreams real for me.

Ellie, you had promised you would never forget. You promised me - as I lay dying in your arms in 1959 - that you would never forget me. You kissed me and you cried as I told you I would search the world for you - that I would never let you get away again. And I told Grant - I told him that I would see you again - and I have. I kept my promise, Ellie, and - and you have to, too. You have to remember."

His blue eyes are wide and pleading; searching her own - perhaps for a person she would never be - and she wishes with all her heart she could tell him yes. Elliot's hands grasp hers tightly, and he stares down at their entwined fingers, looking for all the world like a lost young boy.

"Elliot," she says, "I don't. I'm sorry - I'm so sorry, but I don't remember anything. All those - all those games, all those stories - that's what I thought they were. Just - just -" Eleanor bites her lower lip, her tongue swiping over the old, faint scar from their 6th grade, when she kissed Matt, partly out of anger and spite at Elliot abandoning her. "I thought they were just stories," she finishes lamely.

"I know," he tilts his head back up, and when his gaze meets hers it is hard - not cold, he always looks at her with fondness, but she can tell he is locking some part of himself away when he says, "I know that. I wish things could be different. But -" Elliot's eyes spark slightly with something akin to hope, "- we'll keep trying, won't we? You can keep trying."

"Yeah," she answers honestly, since she doesn't want to disappoint or upset him. "I'll keep trying."

Elliot sighs. "You think I'm - I'm crazy or something." His tone is flat, his posture stiff.

"I don't," Eleanor promises, squeezing his hands gently, "I would never think that. If you think these are - are -"

"Past lives," he supplies, tilting his head to face her again.

"- right, if you think these are some past lives, I believe you. You're the sanest person I know," she gives him a half-smile, which he returns. Eleanor reaches up and tugs lightly on one of his blonde curls before stretching her legs back out again, sliding back along the bench until the distance is restored between them, her ankles still hooked around his left thigh.

"So, you'll let me know if ...?"

Eleanor pats his knee exasperatedly, rolling her eyes slightly. "You'll be the first to know, and that's the truth."

_-.-.-_

_Without her, the world around me changes ..._

**-2008-**

They're lying on the slightly dewy grass one late afternoon, both breathing heavily from their chase. Hair plastered to foreheads and sweat-dampened clothes stuck to hot skin, they sigh in unison and start to laugh. They've not had a whole day to themselves like this in a while, and they intend to take full advantage of it.

"You're faster than I remember," he pants, glaring at her playfully as if it's a fault instead of an advantage.

"We just haven't done this in a while," she rolls over and throws a warm arm across his chest, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I was always this fast, I can assure you. Maybe you've gotten slower. You spent all your time reading and studying and not enough exercising."

"Liar! I exercise more than you do!" Elliot exclaims, shifting his weight and flipping her over until he's pinned her to the ground, brown hair in tangles as she grins lazily at him. "See?"

"Maybe I let you," she argues weakly. "I could throw you off if I wanted to." It's a lie, because she doesn't really want to throw him off - not when he's so close like this, his heart pounding fiercely against her chest, long arms placed on either side of her as he watches her through loose, blonde bangs.

"Yeah?" he asks, his expression suddenly unreadable. "You think?"

"Yeah," Eleanor says, more confidently. "Yeah, I could."

He seems to guess the direction of her thoughts. "Will you, though?" Elliot is very close now, and if she tilted her head up ever so slightly their noses would touch. Her mouth is arid and her lips dry and chapped as she considers the implications of what he's saying.

"No," she finally answers him, dark eyes meeting light ones. "I don't think I will."

Elliot kisses her then, timidly, as if he's afraid of crushing her. Thin pale lips brush against her own, seeking permission. Eleanor welcomes the warm breath, the soft touch, and kisses back, so fiercely that this time their noses do bump. It's hard to tell, since their faces are already flushed to begin with, but she thinks he's blushing as he gently runs a hand through her hair. He half-pulls away, but she keeps a firm grip on his shoulder, searching his eyes with her own, trying to signal that it's alright.

Apparently he understands - he relaxes - but he doesn't kiss her again, merely keeps them both close together as he rolls onto his side, her body not-quite pressed against his. His hands strokes her cheek lingeringly, lips parted the tiniest bit as he sweeps his gaze over her face.

"Émilie," he murmurs, and whether it is unconsciously or consciously, it doesn't matter.

Eleanor finds herself blinking back tears as she extricates herself from his grasp and turns away, sitting up and pulling her knees to her chest. Immediately, he's up with her, hand on her shoulder, face concerned.

"What -" he stumbles over the word, "- Eleanor? What's wrong?"

She heaves a shuddering breath. "I can't do this." Without a word, she staggers to her feet and walks away, sneakers padding across the grass, leaving crushed footprints in her wake.

As soon as she is out of sight, it begins to rain.

_The trees are bare and everywhere the streets are full of strangers ..._

* * *

AN: *le moyenne section = preschool/nursery school

MANY APOLOGIES FOR THIS TERRIBLE CLIFFHANGER. I promise from the bottom of my fanfiction-author-heart that it will get better. In case anyone was confused: essentially Enjolras/Elliot remembers everything, and Eponine/Eleanor remembers nothing. (No one else has any clue as to what's going on.) Everything she drew for him (the Enjolras painting, etc) was based off of what he told her. As for why she ran away - well, if you can't figure it out you'll find out in the next chapter.

Speaking of which, next chapter will involve more Marius/Cosette and Grantaire, and more angsty stuff. I hope this isn't all too teenage-romancesque. ;w; I've never really written kissing scenes or anything before, alas I have no experience to draw back upon. Alsoooo **The Beating of Your Heart** please PM me with details regarding your OOC character for the next chapter. (I churned this one out pretty fast, didn't I? :D This pleases me greatly. I'm getting better at this.)

Please **reviewreviewreview**! And on another note this story has 90 followers, so thank you so much for all your support, I send you all virtual pocket-sized Jehans.


	11. Modern Day cont' - 2008 to 2013

Truth  
by always-a-time  
[_Enjolras X Éponine_]

** Clara Chevalier is **When The Beating of Your Heart**'**s** OC and is by no means mine. (Along with the rest of the characters, sigh.)

Much inspiration was drawn from _A Thousand Years_ by **Christina Perri**. So maybe go listen to that while you read. (You've all probably heard of that song, yeah?)

tw: some cuss words + lots of feels

* * *

Modern Day - 2008 to 2013

* * *

_"What -" he stumbles over the word, "- Eleanor? What's wrong?"_  
_She heaves a shuddering breath. "I can't do this." Without a word, she staggers to her feet and walks away, sneakers padding across the grass, leaving crushed footprints in her wake._  
_As soon as she is out of sight, it begins to rain._

**-.-.-**

The rain splatters on the concrete as Eleanor runs, the drops hitting her chest and back, slipping down her shirt. Her skin turns wet and cold, but she doesn't feel a thing. She reaches the sanctuary of her old elementary school and yanks out her phone, leaving Elliot a message. Shaking droplets out of her hair, she waits, eyes shut as she listens through his pre-recorded message. As the answering machine comes on, she tells him she's staying over at a friend's and hangs up. Her hands are still shaking as she tucks her phone away.

Eleanor drags her tear-stained, storm-dampened self down street after street to the apartment door - she refuses to take a bus - and knocks hastily. There is a muffled reply of 'I'm coming!' followed by the door opening slightly: a pair of green eyes peek out, staring disdainfully.

"Hold on a bit - " the head of brown hair whips around, revealing red tips, "Claire! Your friend's here!" Clara retreats into the apartment, mumbling something about it being the middle of the night in a tone Eleanor is sure she is meant to hear.

(Claire and Clara share the tiny apartment, although Eleanor notes they don't seem to get along well all the time)

Eleanor couldn't go back to her own apartment because too many memories sit in her bedroom, and she can't face that just yet. The door swings open a second time, and this time a blue-eyed blonde greets Eleanor with good cheer before taking in her bedraggled state.

"Eleanor! What're you doing here? Why - oh," Claire pulls her inside, "let's get you dried off first, and then we can talk." Fluffy towels are produced, and Eleanor is perched motionless on the bar stool while Claire proceeds to rub her dry.

"What's wrong? You don't look hurt or anything. Did you and your parents get into a fight?" Claire peppers her with questions as she ruffles Eleanor's hair with another, smaller towel.

"Something up with you and your boyfriend?" Clara inserts, "That blonde - what did you say his name was?" This question is directed at Claire.

"Don't want to talk," Eleanor mumbles, head and eyes lowered. "Can I just stay here for tonight?"

"His name is Elliot," Claire answers briskly, watching Eleanor's face carefully as the latter maintains a stony exterior. Claire stands and gathers up the wet towels. "Of course you can. And if you want to talk tomorrow -"

"I won't," Eleanor promises. "So please, just drop it." She walks over to her bag, which is sitting on top of yet another towel, and zips it open,

"You won't get over it unless you talk it out with someone, so unless you're going to talk it out with whoever did this," Clara gestures to Eleanor's still dripping hair and slightly reddened eyes, "Just know we're here for you. Or," she smirks slightly, "Claire is, at least. We don't really know each other very well, do we? All I ever hear about you from Claire is how you set her up with her boyfriend," Clara cocks her head to the side and rolls her eyes, prompting a bit of a smile from Eleanor.

"I can hear you," Claire trills, reentering the room with an armful of blankets and pillows. "And I talk about other things. Things other than Matt," she clarifies.

Eleanor kicks off her soaked sneakers and peels off her socks with a wrinkled face. "I'll take the couch, alright?" The balls up the socks and stuffs them in her sneakers, which she holds awkwardly for a few moments, unsure of where to put them.

Claire tsks loudly, dropping her load onto the couch, and takes the shoes from her. "They'll never dry that way. I'll toss them in the wash tomorrow, and you can borrow a pair of mine until I can give them back." She pulls out the socks and tosses them into a laundry hamper, leaving the sneakers to dry on the doormat.

"Thanks," Eleanor makes an attempt at a weak smile, but fails miserably.

"You should really take my room," Claire says firmly, crossing her arms in a stern, motherly way that nearly sets Eleanor's teeth on edge. "You need rest."

"Okay, fine, whatever." Eleanor surrenders, too tired to argue. "I don't suppose I could borrow some pajamas while I'm here." Claire nods in a self-satisfied manner and heads back into her room.

"As long as you like pink," Clara grins widely. "That's the only colour pajamas seem to come in inside of Claire's closet."

"Again, I can hear you!"

-.-.-

He sits in his car for a full ten minutes before he starts the engine. He's half-way to Charlie's before he realizes that he can't possibly go back to their place - his friend knows him too well for that. Charles will see through him in a quick second, despite how he would try to hide it. So he does a 180 and heads for Matt and Chris' instead.

When he arrives the only one home is Matt, much to his relief. Matt doesn't question why his friend needs a place to sleep for the night even though Elliot has his own apartment, he simply lets Elliot in, chattering about his latest date with Claire. For once the inane conversation is something he is grateful for.

"But anyhow, Chris is out somewhere, perhaps at a bar, and he told me not to expect him until early morning. You can take his room until then, he won't mind." Matt yanks a pile off books off the foot of the bed in Chris' room, sliding them easily onto a nearby shelf. "Will this do?"

"Yes. Thanks." Elliot tosses his dry (the trunk of his used car pulled through in the rain, it seems) bag onto the floor.

"Anything you need, you let me know, alright?" Matt smiles, his hand gripping the doorway. "Don't hesitate to ask. Girl trouble, whatever."

Elliot settles for nodding and throwing his tired self onto the bed, rolling to face the wall. Perhaps Matt is more perceptive than Elliot gives him credit for.

-.-.-

_I have died everyday waiting for you ..._

When he sees her the next day she acts as if nothing happened.

Her hair is pulled back tight, her makeup flawless as she sets the tray of coffee cups on the table. The only evidence of last night lies in her slightly bloodshot eyes. Apparently, there is no cure for a sleepless night.

"Hey," he says when she slides his cup over to him, just to see what reaction he'll get. Elliot rests his elbows lightly on the table, the edge digging into his skin.

"Hey," she says right back, warm and friendly, like they hadn't just spent the night as far away from each other as possible. Eleanor tucks some flyaway hairs behind her ears, pulling her gaze back to the tray as she gives Matt his drink. Her nonchalance doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would, because he figures this would be how she would react. So instead, he waits for the inevitable moment when her brown eyes flicker back to him, and holds them steadily with his own blue ones.

"Sleep well?" he prods her.

"Not really. You?"

"Slept like a rock." He's not really lying: rocks don't sleep. Elliot almost sighs with exasperation at himself.

"Hmmph." She seems upset that he was unaffected by last night's events, and he doesn't blame her.

"You free around 4?" A peace offering.

"Yeah, I think so."

He tries to pretend that doesn't mean anything to him, that it's just a another normal outing for the two of them. That she isn't giving him a second chance. "Sounds good. I'll come pick you up?" Back here, later, when all their friends will be out drinking or partying. He examines her face, notices the necklace she is wearing. The star-shaped charm that dangles from end's leather cord; nestled between her collarbones.

She nods stiffly, lips pursed, indicating she finds it agreeable.

"Hey, can I come too?" Grant interrupts, eyes flickering up from his phone. His feet are propped up rudely on the table, but he doesn't seem to care. "Need to pick up a few things. If you're going to the mall, that is. If not, that's okay too, we can just hang out. "

"Can't!" Matt interjects much too loudly, waving a hand in front of Grant's field of vision. "We - have - that - thing - erm ... you wanted to meet Claire? And - and - oh! Chris wanted to - uh -"

"Let me save you the trouble of making up an excuse," Eleanor shakes her head in disbelief at Matt's complete transparency. "Matt is trying to tell you that he thinks you should let Elliot and I go out together on our own."

Grant lets this implication sink in, his expression now shifting to one of interest as he sets his phone on the table. "Oh? And what say you two?"

"You can come if you want," Elliot says quietly. "But I think one of us should meet Claire before Matt does something outrageous like propose to her," he adds lightly, trying to change the subject.

Pouting, Grant throws his arm around Matt's shoulders. "Guess you and I have some wedding invitations to write. Don't worry - I'll bring my best calligraphy pens, and we'll invite Joseph, too. He can floralize - is that even a word? - the cards."

"I'm not proposing to Claire," Matt argues hotly, squirming futilely under Grant's heavy weight.

"Not for you, idiot - for these two!"

Elliot watches as Eleanor vanishes into the kitchen so she won't have to hear anymore of it. He tries to imagine how she feels and what she's thinking. She's tired of this - of everything and them and her and him - and as much as she loves him, she almost doesn't want to keep fighting. Or at least, he hopes she still loves him.

"Hmmph," Grant says, "Maybe you should pick up some flowers when you pick her up."

"That actually sounds like a good idea," Matt muses, tapping his chin with a loose index finger. "Do you suppose Claire would like some flowers? Some carnations?"

"I wasn't talking about you, Matt! Why the hell do you think everything revolves around you and your girlfriend?"

-.-.-

_Darling, don't be afraid I have loved you ..._

He's leaning against his beat-up car when she leaves the restaurant. Her hair is still tied back, but the makeup is gone and her face clean. Still, the look she gives him quells any greeting he might have offered.

Her head is turned away when she speaks, emotionless. "I'm not the girl you want me to be, Elliot. I'm not her."

"I don't understand." Eleanor still won't turn around to face him, and it's maddening. Unconsciously, her arm reaches over to adjust the strap of her shoulder bag.

"I'm not them. I'm not any of them, I'm not anyone. I'm not Émilie, or Éponine. I'm just - just Eleanor." While her tone is still guarded, it is firm. She looks so stubbornly familiar that it makes him take a mental step back to reevaluate the situation. Her hands clench a few times then become loose, yanking at the hem of her shirt before hanging limply at her sides.

"That doesn't matter to me - it never mattered to me. The only person I want is you - you don't have to remember any of it or be anyone else, Ellie. It was never about that. I'll never bring it up again if that's what you want. Just - just ask me to, and I will." He's pleading with her, begging her to stay.

She inhaled sharply. "But what if ... what if I don't. What if I never do and you spend your whole life waiting for a ghost? There's that whole part of you that I'll never be able to know. I couldn't ask that of you. To let go of that." Eleanor refuses to do that, she refuses to ask him to sacrifice that for her. "It's a part of you - I can see that, even if you can't." _I don't want you to regret being with me._

"Hey," he says gently, placing a hand on her arm. His palm alone sends tingles shooting across her skin and her breath stuttering out her throat in an erratic attempt to calm itself. Elliot's eyes are like the ocean as they shine. She's always enjoyed painting him; his eyes in particular. The eyes are the window to the soul, she knows, and she can almost see all of the past lives he's lived in them. The past lives she cannot remember.

"It's easier for you to let me go," she manages to say before her flight response kicks in: she's dashing down the sidewalk away, away, away from him and his pretty, soulful eyes.

-.-.-

_And all along I believed I would find you ...  
_

There's a rapping at her door the next morning. Eleanor stirs, pulling herself up with a groan and stretching her limbs out from their uncomfortable position hunched over her desk. She manages to smear about half a dozen sheets of paper across the workspace in the process, creasing and wrinkling them. Staggering to her feet, she tugs at her unmanageable hair as best she can as she crosses the room to the door.

When she peeks through the peephole there is no one in sight. Cautiously, then, Eleanor creaks the door open to check; the hallway is empty. Instead, there lies a worn, familiar notebook on her orange welcome mat, and suddenly she can't think anymore. Nimble fingers scoop the book to her chest, she jerks around, tugging the door closed behind her with her foot. She is still clutching it to her body a few minutes later, still and unmoving.

Eleanor notes the thin paper bookmark with the carefully pressed daisy under its shiny lamination.

It takes a moment for her to gather the courage to open it to its marked page, but she does. Her own face stares back at her from the page, a mischievous smile and eager dark eyes. Her name is penned in Elliot's beautiful cursive underneath, giving a name to the girl in the drawing. Eleanor.

There are other words on the page as well, but she finds it hard to look away from her own piercing gaze. She briefly wonders what photo he used as a reference before dismissing it. He could draw her from memory, if he needed to. He surely had no such problems with references when he drew Claire.

Quietly, then, she read the passage about herself aloud.

_"My best friend. Where to begin? We've known each other our whole lives - for much longer, if I'm correct - and there is nothing about her that I could describe without doing her a terrible injustice. Still, this notebook will never be complete without her. I should have known from the start that I would find her again, that there could be no doubt in that. We were always meant to find each other._

_She's irritable. And quirky. She says and does things I could never do, often punctuated with witty remarks and equally witty smirks. She's caustic and completely stubborn, yet I wouldn't have her any other way. She's like a lost soul, she finds her way through her art and silly smiles and games of make believe. She's unpredictable in very aspect of the word, her mood swings faster than anyone I know, from cheerfully exuberant to petulantly childish. And she's always made me smile, even if she doesn't remember it._

_And she doesn't remember any of it. That's what hurts the most, because I know she tries - she tries and fails and it hurts her too. She hides it away - buries it under her layers of shadow and mystique - and runs as far as she can in the opposite direction. And I should let her be, but I can honestly say I'm too selfish to say goodbye. I'd wait another lifetime for her, if I had to - I'd wait a thousand more._

_She haunts me, sometimes. When she laughs, or when she grips my hand or tugs my curls. In every part of Eleanor I see them - the others. They're a part of her, whether she realizes it or not. They account for every part of her personality - every little snit she gets herself into, every happy tear that trickles down her cheek. I don't know how I never saw it before. It's why I don't need her to remember who she was before - she is who she was, and she always will be."_

It ends there, with his scrawled signature (despite his perfect cursive, his signature is shit, which she finds hilarious).

He's in front of her apartment. She can sense this even as she bolts to the windows to yank open the blinds, open notebook still balanced in one hand. And then Eleanor is bounding out, slamming the door in place, lock forgotten in her haste. There's nothing valuable in her flat, anyways. Skipping out on the elevator, she takes the steps two at a time, nearly killing herself as she almost misses the last step.

When she sees him she is breathless. Everything slides into place; crystal clear. She doesn't need those memories. She needs him.

The boyish hopeful expression is back on his face, and it's all she can do not to pull him to her and kiss it off him.

He nods at the book, which is still in her hand, a gesture of acknowledgement.

Eleanor allows a small smile to show: "Where to, Ellie?"

-.-.-

_Time has brought your heart to me ..._

Elliot silently opens the passenger seat door, and when she slips inside the familiar movement of it disturbs him. It seems she's always been like a ghost to him, never quite there when either of them needed or wanted her to be. The car ride is silent, the occasion limb shifting and Eleanor tapping her foot on the floor. He hasn't the heart to tell her to stop, even though he finds it distracting.

When they arrive at the park a small, wistful expression steals over her face. Her figure dips and she runs her fingertips over the long, uncut grass. Eleanor strolls across the path and he follows, merely a shadow in her wake.

Elliot reaches out and takes her hand, smoothing his fingers over her knuckles. She does not pull away, which he takes as a good sign. He inhales deeply, mind going over what he had planned to say. Suddenly it all seems wrong. So Elliot starts again and lets the words flow from where she most needs to hear them: his heart.

"I've waited what is probably more than a few lifetimes for you. I don't want to wait anymore: so I won't. It's a lot easier than you think it is to let go of my ghosts. I don't need those memories to be happy, and I certainly don't need them to be with you; you won't need them anymore than I do. To let go of that would be easy - it's letting go of you I have a problem with.

If you can't remember our past, we'll make a new future, a better one. We'll leave it all behind and build new memories and new lives. One where there's no war and no death; only the boring monotony of our day-to-day lives that's sometimes sidetracked by our insane friends and their wonderful senses of humor. And I'll stay with you as long as you want me to, you only have to ask. Just ask me to, and I will."

He tilts his mouth into a lopsided smile that charms her to no end. "Does that sound agreeable to you?"

"Yeah." As she speaks he breathes again, his smile morphing into a softer version of itself. "I - I think it does." Eleanor glances down their hands, slowly turning hers over and entwining their fingers, brushing her fingertips over his skin. "I would really like that."

-.-.-

_I have loved you for a thousand years ..._

**-2009-**

Things fall into a new routine.

Hands are held and legs are brushed; smiles exchanged and words whispered. Sketches and words are passed along, scattered across both of their dwellings and the back room of the café Eleanor works at (she's assistant manager now, and the back room is practically hers). Paint eventually finds a home on his clothes as well as hers, but he doesn't mind it. Matt and Claire even insist on double dating at first (an idea which both Eleanor and Elliot abhor), but thankfully Clara and Chris agree to go with them instead. Grant begins to complain (raucously) about the lack of public displays of sexual tension between the two of them. Their parents are exhilarated that their kids have finally gotten together, and approve - perhaps too much so - of what they see as an impending union.

Their first anniversary is shared painting under a full, starry sky in the field where they first kissed.

("I'll admit I'm a bit reminiscent today," he tells her.

"I'll admit I'm a little bit in love," she says right back, swinging their joined hands upwards towards the stars.

He smiles, then, and kisses her with fervor. "I am, too.")

-.-.-

**-2010-**

That summer they visit museums.

Their history is their main point of focus, but that doesn't stop Eleanor from venturing into art history, or Elliot into law and politics (which is sort-of related, in a sense). He'll point out things they knew; things that they had; things that they had seen become a part of history. She absorbs it all attentively, because it's still important to her - to them both - to try. He holds her hand the whole time and blushes profusely when she teases him. They buy over-priced souvenirs from the gift shops and start a collection in the(ir) back room, even though Elliot protests the commercialism of big companies that rely on third-world labour.

Their second anniversary is when she presents him with a new, full-sized painting of him from the 1870's.

("You look dashing!" she says, eyes sparkling. "I should dress you as a gentleman more often."

"Only in paintings," he allows.

Her smirk grows taunting. "We'll see about that, won't we?")

-.-.-

**-2011-**

The art blog is meant to help them find the others.

Eleanor updates when she can, with paintings of their group: Elliot, Matt, Claire, Chris, Charlie, Grant, and herself. François is found, through a mutual appreciation of art, and along with him comes Jeremy, Louis and Bernard. Elliot is positively thrilled to be reunited with his friends, and four more pages are added to his notebook. They fill the back room of Le Jardin with laughter and parties, jokes and artwork.

Their third anniversary is spent at such an event with their friends, who tease and force karaoke on each other.

("I've missed this," he admits when everyone has gone home, "I've missed them."

"Sentimental," she sings at him, shaking her head mockingly.

He seizes her around the waist and rests his forehead against hers. "You would be too, if you were me.")

-.-.-

**-2012-**

They're engaged in late autumn.

The proposal is brief and heartfelt. His smile is bright and lively as he asks her to be his. Eleanor wears the extravagant engagement ring his parents insist he buys only because Elliot promises her a simpler wedding band. Everyone is excited about the preparations, with both mothers and Claire at the forefront of the wedding committee. When they insist Eleanor join in the planning, she and Clara sulk together at the end of the table while Claire discusses floral options.

"You two are unhelpful," Claire remarks idly, as both Eleanor and Clara shrug in unison at the display of magazines and order sheets in front of them. "I should get Joseph to help. At least he likes flowers. It's as if you don't even care about your own wedding, Eleanor!"

"I care about Elliot, and about getting married to him. All this -" Eleanor waves her hands over her head in a circular motion, "- is completely irrelevant to that. I'm only here to let you, my mother, and Elliot's mother knock yourselves out. I'm just showing up to get wed, alright? The flowers don't matter."

"You could elope, suggests Clara. "It's not too late for that."

("It's your bachelor party, you have to go - if not for yourself than for the other guys."

"They're not engaged to you," he rolls his eyes.

Eleanor is firm. "Too bad. And I want pictures," she instructs him. "If only to make sure they all behave."

"You just want blackmail," he mutters in return.

She's grinning ear-to-ear now. "You know me too well.")

-.-.-

_I'll love you for a thousand more ..._

**-2013-**

June 5th dawns with a fiery vengeance. The light breeze does nothing to alleviate the heat, and Eleanor scowls from underneath her veil and heavy, old-fashion cotton gown. She has half a mind to tear the layers of fabric off, or to strip and get married in the nude, or to force Claire to wear the gown and see how _she_ likes it swathed in fabric.

"There's nothing to be done about it," Claire is saying, partly to herself and partly of Eleanor. "You'll just have to make-do."

Clara pops her head in and informs them that there's only a few minutes left. Fidgeting now, Claire smooths her lilac bridesmaid gown.

"Ready?" Claire asks.

Eleanor's whole body suddenly becomes a bundle of nerves, and she finds it hard to breathe. Still, she waves the blonde off. "Just the humidity," Eleanor lies. Claire nods in sympathy, touching the sleeve of her white gown lightly.

"Time!" Clara declares, shoving past the pavilion flap and tugging Claire towards the main pavilion, where the boys are waiting to walk their bridesmaids down the aisle.

Claire spares Eleanor a kiss on the cheek before she leaves. "You'll be perfect, just remember your queue."

A few moments pass - then music begins to play - and her father is by her side, guiding her. He's smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he gently nudges her arm.

"Don't you worry. Your best friend is waiting out there for you. As long as you remember that - remember how much you love him - the rest will follow." Her papa's arm is warm and solid and strong. She straightens as Charlie plays their queue on the piano. She is ready.

("You may now kiss the bride."

They kiss, soft lips on warm lips: ocean breeze and a fiery passion. Her entire being comes alive, and she senses every part of him. Every finger on his hand, which is wrapped around her waist and pressed against her side; the locks of hair that brush against her forehead and curl to frame his eyes, which are currently closed; his heart beating adjacent to hers; his breathing practically in unison. He doesn't want to pull away, but she does, and her eyes laughing and shining.

"I remember, Elliot - I - I remember!"

And then she's shouting it in-between peals of joy as he's picking her up off the ground, twirling her around and around, both lost to the world around them.)

* * *

AN: This was how I felt about this chapter at first: "Ugh. This whole chapter bothers me a lot. I can't write this angsty stuff for some reason? And there is so many issues I have with this I can't even ... It's completely frustrating and everything. It's all impossibly terrible in my opinion. I throw myself out the window in grief."

But then I had a lovely little plot bunny hop in and pet my hair and everything became wonderful. (I'm telling you right now before the plot-bunny edit this was shit.) So now this chapter actually pleases me!

But back to business - after this is the aftermath (which is more of an epilogue for this cycle) followed by the epilogue (which is for this whole fic) and the long AN chapter I'm going to move all of my rambling to. I'm sad/happy to see this through and done. I'm going to be depressed when Eleanor and Elliot's story is over. It's been a pretty long run - I hope you'll enjoy each and every last bit as I wrap this up.

P.S. I also have some extra little tidbits from the third cycle that I changed my mind about and cut out, I'm not sure if you'll want to read them? Essentially two exchanged letters from Evelyn and Edwin. There's also some things cut out from this one, just really short scenes. Let me know, and I'll put them up on tumblr.

P.P.S. Shoutout to whoever sent in the question on my 'ask' for when this chapter would be posted. You go glen coco!


	12. Aftermath: Penelope's Gift - 2013

Truth: Aftermath  
by always-a-time  
[_Marius X Cosette_] + [_Patria_]

A certain not-so-young lady makes her return.

* * *

Penelope's Gift - 2013

* * *

A age-withered hand drifts across the keyboard, carefully tapping the keys with a precise concentration. It's twin rests on the computer mouse, which moves to click onto a picture of a woman dashing down a street, a pair of white gloves abandoned on the street behind her. The picture enlarges; the details now clearly visible. It is a fine piece of artwork.

On the desk in front of the monitor lays a carefully wrapped brown package, stamped and addressed.

It is time for it to be sent.

* * *

Matt and Claire have moved into Eleanor's old apartment. She and Elliot have a new place to themselves, and since they had been looking for an apartment anyways, it was perfect. Boxes lay scattered about the place as Claire attempts to sift through it for some dinnerware for their breakfast.

"The only thing we have is cereal, so we can't use paper plates," she tells him. "I'll go shopping today, alright? But we're going to have to unpack anyways, so we might as well start with the basics."

There is a knock at the door.

"You go get that," Claire says, smiling. "It's probably one of your friends."

"Our friends," Matt corrects, but he is beaming as he crosses the small dining area to the door. A minute goes by, and listening carefully she can hear his confused tone from the kitchen. Claire is up to her elbows in boxes, but she finally manages to scoop out some plates and utensils from a badly-taped cardboard box.

"Who is it?" she calls out, curious as to who it could be.

"The mailman, he's got a package for Eleanor. It doesn't have a return address, either."

"Just sign for her, then!" Honestly.

"Right." Matt speaks a bit more with the mailman before coming back into the kitchen. "I've got it."

"Mhmm," she replies absently, still searching for the bowls.

Matt sets the package on the counter and begins placing the plates and utensils in the drawers, leaving two spoons out. Knives and forks and spoons are sorted into their appropriate containers. "So," he clears his throat awkwardly. "Now that Eleanor and Elliot are married and everything, and we're - you know - living together, I was wondering what you would think - er - how you would feel about ... about ..."

Claire looks up, her eyes wide and surprised.

"Unless you don't want to! Then - then no, no to all of that," Matt stutters, already backing away a few steps, bumping into the counter with a pained yelp. The package slides off and lands into one of the boxes, unnoticed by both.

She starts laughing without really meaning to, doubled over as she tries to catch her breath. Matt's utterly frightened expression does nothing to help her. Claire thinks he must be the most clueless, lovable boy in the whole world, and she is glad he's hers.

"I'm sorry - I didn't meant to start laughing - you didn't even finish your question, Matt," she manages when she is able to speak again. "And are you alright?"

"I guess what I'm trying to say is -" he fumbles in his pocket for a few moments and extracts a tiny box. Matt drops to one knee, which in itself is a feat in the crowded kitchen, and gazes up into her eyes. "Claire, will you marry me?"

"Yes, there's nothing more in the world I would love than to be your wife."

Matt rises and eagerly pulls her in for a kiss, and she smoothes his curls with her free hand. Everything feels wonderful when he holds her, just like when he looks at her, love pure and clear in his eyes. They pull apart, foreheads resting together as they smile at each other.

Perhaps he'll have to ask Grant about getting Joseph to help with wedding invitations after all.

* * *

The package does not reappear until all the things have been removed from the boxes and place in their rightful spot.

"Oh," Claire exclaims, holding it up. "I can't believe we forgot about this! With the engagement and all this wedding planning, it just slipped my mind! Matt - we should bring this over to Eleanor right now."

Matt takes the brown wrapped object from her, scrutinizing it. While there is no return address, there is a name where the address should have been: Penelope Vournier.

"What do you think it is?"

"It's illegal to open other people's mail, you know."

"I know, it's just, I feel like I know the person who sent this. You see the name here?" He points it out to her, brow creased. "I think ... I think I know what's inside, too." Matt rubs the nape of his neck worriedly.

"Really?" Claire sounds curious now, tapping the name with her pink nail-polish painted finger. "You know this woman?"

He bites his lip. "Maybe. It sounds kind of ridiculous, I know."

"No, it's not," she finally says, placing her hand carefully over his.

Matt snaps his head up to look at her. "What?"

"I think you're right, Matt."

He looks back down at the neat little package. "No, we shouldn't - you were right. We should go give this to her right now," Matt decides, picking it up and gesturing towards the door with it.

"We'll ask if we can open it with them - maybe Eleanor can tell us who the sender is," Claire agrees readily.

They both stand, and Claire fetches her purse while Matt pulls coats from the closet. Just before locking the door, Claire murmurs the name to herself.

"Penelope, who are you?"

* * *

"We've been looking for her all this time - and she found us." Elliot is holding both of Eleanor's hands in her own as they stare at the opened wrappings that contained a set of lace gloves. "Where did she find these?" her voice quavers with emotion.

Sitting on chairs across from them, Matt and Claire wait patiently for some sort of explanation.

"And there was no return address?" Elliot ask them, and they both shake their heads. His shoulders slump slightly. "Well, perhaps she doesn't want to be found. Unless, of course, it's in there," he nods at the letter that rests on the table.

"If it's alright," Eleanor begins slowly, tasting each syllable on her tongue, "I'd like to read this alone - with Elliot."

"Of course. Feel free to give us a call." Claire tugs her fiancee's hand, and the two exit.

The letter is unfolded by Eleanor and handed to Elliot to read.

* * *

_Ma chérie Eleanor_,

Firstly, I find myself obliged to tell you that these are not, in fact, the original gloves; although I wish with all my heart that they could have been. I have missed you dearly, and Monsieur Edwin as well (or whatever name is he going by these days), not to mention _mon cher_ Marcelle, who surely is as clueless as ever. I can still remember those days in Jean's café with all of us together.

I digress, perhaps you do not understand me at all.

In this case, know simply that I am a relative who has missed you and loves you. I would caution against further reading, but I would guess you to be headstrong enough to continue either way.

If you do remember me, it would be as Penelope, or perhaps Patria, or any other from an assortment of names that seems to escape me. I, however, remember all of you. I believe it to do with age, or experience, but I've recovered a great deal of knowledge over the past decade. Words no longer seem capable of expressing the past or the future, not when you've lived as long or as much as us, but I can picture _cher_ Edwin wrestling his way with words until they bent to his will.

Wealth, education and security have never been barriers for me - you all saw to that, and I thank you for it.

I have so many questions to ask of you, they fill me up and threaten to spill their words onto the page, but this is not the time for that. Perhaps another day, you could come visit me. I have enclosed my address at the bottom of this note, if you would like to. But do not feel pressured - it is not your duty to care for me now, even in old age. It should, perhaps, fall to me to watch over you instead.

These gloves are a gift. They were as close to the original as I could procure, and I hope you will appreciate the lengths I took to find a pair from the proper time period. If you remember, please think of me whenever you see them.

_Ta chère Penelope._

* * *

"It's still all very familiar to me," Matt says to Claire on the car ride back. His face is scrunched in the habitual manner he has when he drives; it's one of many traits Claire finds endearing. "The gloves, the name. Do you think we've met her? Maybe at Eleanor and Elliot's wedding? She must be a relative or something." He continues chatting as Claire begins to drift off, the lull of his voice accompanied by the slow movement of the car pulling her to sleep. At some point Matt realizes his fianceé is no longer listening, and turns down the radio with his right hand as to not disturb her.

* * *

Cosette is humming as she walks through the field of tall grass. She's allergic to grass, and although this particular field is not fresh-cut, Cosette is rather paranoid about the matter. She remembers one time how her eyes had gotten red and itchy, how her papa had tried to warn her against rubbing them, and how she hadn't listened and made the situation worse. The thin strands of grass brush her calves, making her wish she had worn pants instead. The picnic basket on her arms sways slightly as she hesitates. Pants?

Suddenly a sense of strangeness overcomes her, and the grass seems more like a sea, as she struggles to get out, the basket slipping from her arm and sinking into the greenery. She is not afraid - she simply understands the need to leave. There is an acute awareness in her actions as the wades through the grass, towards the unknown. Cosette can no longer feel the strands; her legs feel numb and heavy. She gets the feeling that even before now she had been walking for a long, long time.

After what seems like months Cosette finds herself on the edge of the field, which ends off with a steep cliff. Frightened, she takes a step back and looks around - the grass field is gone, and she is standing on the cliff edge with nowhere else to go.

"Hello?" she calls out, tentatively. Perhaps it is silly to think someone would hear her.

Footsteps approach slowly from behind her, the soft padding of a small crowd.

Blonde hair and blue eyes appear beside her. Their friendly smiles meet Cosette's shy one as one by one the women offer hold out their arms, palms facing the empty azure sky. Recognition flickers in their eyesas they watch her, and as Cosette takes their hands in hers, she recognizes them, too.

"Corinne, Colette, Charlotte." She repeats three of their names in turn, and warm tears begin to slip down Cosette's cheeks as they nod.

Fingers entwined with her counterparts', Cosette knows what needs to be done. She steps towards the open air, her toes curling delicately on the edge. Charlotte, who is at last able to walk, squeezes Cosette's hand in encouragement.

Cosette takes the final step and together they fall.

* * *

"Marius!" Claire exclaims as she jerks awake. Matt's hands are gripping either side of her shoulders, his face pale and shaky.

"Y-you weren't waking up - and I didn't know what to do - I was going to call for an ambulance - you were talking in your sleep and _I couldn't wake you up_." His panic is evident as he pulls her awkwardly into his arms from her seat, hands shaking. "Are you alright? Is something the matter? I can still call an ambulance -"

"I'm fine," she wraps her arms around him, stroking his back. "It was just ... a sort of odd dream."

Matt breathes a heavy sigh of relief, his hand tangling itself into her hair. "You're sure? Don't do that again, please. You scared me. I thought I was going to lose you, as silly as it sounds. I mean - you're perfectly healthy, but you never know with these kinds of things - perhaps Jeremy was right, I should speak with him more often -"

"I'm sorry," Claire says honestly, resting her head on his shoulder. He quiets, stroking her hair with his left hand. "I didn't mean to. I just - I remember who Penelope is, now."

His face is confused as he pulls away slightly to look her in the eye. "From your dream?" Claire leans in and kisses his cheek.

"Yes," she smiles. "You see, it's a long story ..."

* * *

AN: *sniffs quietly* One more to go, _mes amis_. And it's already written up, I just have to go over it. Please do review.


	13. Epilogue: Eternity

Touch: Epilogue  
by always-a-time  
[_Enjolras X Éponine_]

* * *

Eternity - ?

* * *

_'e·ter·ni·ty || infinite or unending time; a state to which time has no application; timelessness'_

-.-.-

She had many names. She was Éponine; she was Émilie; she was Evelyn; she was Élise; she was Eleanor.

He had as many as well. He was Enjolras; he was Étienne; he was Edwin; he was Éric; he was Elliot.

They met, they loved, they died. They had seen how lives could fall apart and how lives could be lost.

Still, through all this, they found each other.

Now it was time for their reward.

-.-.-

_When the beating of your heart, echoes the beating of the drums ..._

Stillness. At first, everything is vastly empty and silent. The girl who stands in the midst of this trembles for the briefest second. Her bare feet rest on the ground, her arms pale and clean, her hair long and hanging partly over her face. There is no breeze and no grass and no sun: she stands on a smooth, flat plane. There is no sense of hot or cold here, only nothingness. Her heart beats loudly in her chest, and she believes she can hear drums in the distance. Her breath is soft and measured as she sits.

There seems to be some kind of confusion going on inside her mind; she occasionally pauses to press her fingers to her temple in concentration.

"Oh!" calls a voice. There is a pause, and then - "Is it you?"

She does not speak at first: she is afraid. Her foot rubs against her ankle, her posture slouched. The girl does not look up, merely tilts her head further down, allowing her hair to fall in front of her face.

"It is you! Come on - hurry up, then. They're waiting for you, you know. He's waiting."

Her voice fades in her throat.

"What's wrong? Come, Ép- Ém- oh, dash it all. Won't you come on? Is something the matter? You can't be injured ... no, that's simply impossible. He's waiting for you, don't you want to see him? _Que veux-tu_?"

The girl's mouth opens and closes the tiniest bit. Her mouth is not dry and her voice is there, why can't she speak? The footsteps from the voice approach, and a soft hand grips her shoulder. It's warm. She leans into the warmth for a fraction of a moment before pulling away. Why is she here?

"Hey, É!"

Her head jerks upwards at being addressed as such, and she hears a noise of realization from the boy (she is quite sure of this fact, even as she is unsure of everything else).

"Ah, I see the problem now. Your eyes are closed. Come now, open them up, and we'll be on our way," he coaxes her. "I can already hear him berating me for taking so long for such a simple task. He's probably pacing the Musain right now, filled to the brim with pent-up energy, _petite_ P in his wake. He picked me to send for you, you know - me! I was honoured. He seemed to think I would be more familiar to you."

Her hand slowly rises to touch her eyelids. Yes, the boy is right, both of them are shut tightly. If she were to open them, what would she see? A young man, around her age, with curly hair and kind eyes. Plain clothes and a freckled face. A happy smile and a crinkled nose. The quiet is deafening as she contemplates this information.

The boy is worried now. "Are you alright? Should I fetch some help?" She is sure that if her eyes were open, she would see him visibly floundering for words, making vague hand gestures although he knows she cannot see him. It is endearing, and a quiet smile steals across her lips.

What else can she remember?

A sturdy, gruff man with dark hair and slightly blood-shot eyes. Bottle in hand and a cynical smile on his face.

Soft and elegant, the figure of a lady dressed in finery. A quiet, attentive woman with a loving touch.

A tiny girl clutching a pair of snow-white gloves, hair in ringlets, a small army of flowers twisted into a crown on her head.

The rebellious angel, who is crowned instead with blonde curls and blazing blue eyes. Nimble fingers and calloused palms; proud chin and strong smile. The one who loves her and sang her praises; spoke their vows of union. Red, always red. Whether it red was clothes or blood; it was set upon him and with it he was able to raise his surroundings to glory.

Brown eyes slowly blink, lids opening and taking in the world around them.

The world is bright and golden, and she is very nearly content.

"_Oui_," says he, says the boy she knows as M. "That will do it. Are you ready?"

He offers her his hand, ready to pull her to the next life - the everlasting one.

She permits it.

-.-.-

_There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes!_

An eternity later, the world is still full of sunshine, and she is in his arms once more.

Together they stand with their family; short heads and tall; male and female; crying and smiling.

Petite P (not to be confused with P-the-man, the one who had braided flowers into Petite P's hair for this occasion) engulfs her mother in a long needed embrace, invisible tears of joy slipping down her cheeks. There are no true tears here, and so her rosy cheeks remain dry and untouched. Her love is at her side, the familiar weight of his hand resting on the small of her back, his arm wrapped around both her and the girl by her side.

In the corner of her eye she sees the face of the lark and the boy she used to adore. She sees them happy for her, happy for her family, and happy for themselves. She sees them as friends and as family, and as all the others they had once been.

The world seems to sway beneath her feet as the enormity of this new life settles into her soul.

Eternity is a very long time, yes, and there is nothing more that they could all want than each other.

* * *

AN: I anticipated your question (maybe?).

**Q: Why did Enjolras not go to fetch Éponine himself?**

A: He wants to be the first thing she sees when she enters Heaven. Enjolras is fairly sure that when she sees him it will bring her memories back (it worked that way for Marius and Cosette, but that's another story), so he wants to make sure she is in the right place for that. Or something. I am rambling; _je me excuse. _It just seemed fitting to me that Marius would fetch her.

_tl;dr - I am the author and I do whatever I want, heh._

I will definitely write some more e/e fics in the future (I have an odd Rapunzel!Eponine thing in the works, which I am totally digging, along with that tricky Les Wizardables fic I keep on mentioning) , so hopefully I shall see all you lovelies again soon, but I also want to focus on some of my other fics that I've neglected in favour of this one (this is one tiny reason why I am glad this is done).

If you have followed or favourited but haven't reviewed, please do so, it would mean a lot to me.

This fic has been the very best, and it saddens me deeply to see it end. I want to thank everyone who read this through to the end. I hope you all find the past lives and people you're looking for. **Happy Barricade Day**, my dear friends.

_- always-a-time_


End file.
